Time
doesn’t require of us
any
single
thing

Press your body, into the yielding earth
Let your tongue do as it might & touch
in the shady soil
spores

of the life you keep on not having left behind

It almost spins itself now, the dial to
*the feeling of sand slipping out beneath your toes*
dryer buzz & door-to-door & have you heard the news & zero installation

There

Cracked in the amber of that moment you don’t talk about, a fern
growing 360 million years from the trauma horizon of your event, a
fern.

Light gets in.
Even so many intrusive things like a bit of summer sun.

It’ll keep growing back.

You know that now, right?

Patch it with mantras&
  glitter&
cocktails&
performative vulnerability&
  tape

&

there’s a couple ways you get out of this

You can spend the next three lifetimes waiting under moonlight for this terrible moment to grant you single pointless wish

Or, upon finding an old lighter that belongs
to a limestone mold of a lesser you
set fire to frond

&hope for rain.