Portrait of the Self Moving from Love to Love

Absorb what heat transfers to stone. Grate
bricks of salty cheese, eat leftover red velvet

cupcakes though you know you'll be sorry you
did, afterwards. Nearly halfway through the. year,

every celebration's too quickly gone. Time scatters
feathers so recklessly on the grass, then flies away.

Grief, on the other hand, hunches in an armchair,
heavy-hipped. It hasn't moved in weeks, is sorely

in need of a shower. You try not to pay it any mind,
just going about your day. Without warning, it

keens under its breath, bursts into tears. Sometimes it
looks and sounds like a child that wants soothing.

Marvel at its persistence, its certainty you'll eventually
need to do something about it. Something real, that is.

Only a fool would give it everything. If a venomous snake
perched on your windowsill, would you offer it your neck?

Quagmires and quicksands, all the world's hidden hazards,
ready to test the trusting traveler. You read books

simply to pass the time, not necessarliy to find happiness
though it seems possible. Could you really be happy

under cloud banks, haze of smog; prospects of becoming fully
vested still a question mark in your mind? Context:

when you arrive at a certain age, every scenario's
xeriscape is minimalist—conserving moisture. You

yearn at times for the lushness of landscape, indisputable
zest before amor mundi turned into love-as-memory.

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