what awkward meaning of life
I can articulate
between this brief now or never

 is that
all of this might come to an end

without ever becoming whole

I was a child in my grandmother’s arm

flowers and insects
bombs
birds and the bees
global warming

look at this baby


haven’t the seasons been growing longer
than what the years took on?

 
The privilege is
to come in line thinking that

I will live my life as my own

there’s a side of me that pleads
to live it like a good book

 
more than
chores
more than
necrosis

 
drawing meaning
out of this absurd ensemble
of philosophy and gibberish

 
I want to be the pauses between sentences

I want meaning to be savored
left unspoken

something like jazz or poetry

faith makes sense

only when everything else doesn’t