Dredge up the wrecks of who you thought you’d be
Limpet licked and blurred with moss
Toss them on the fire
Watch the fumes spiral up towards the moon
Your seabed fresh and clean
Ready to be seen for all that it is.
All that you are.

Sit in the sun.
Sit in the glow of the sun through the grimy window
the world thumps and wheezes and spins.
And you like it where the world is not.
Where the stained carpet speaks
Of old selves faded away
But still in the trunk
In the bark
Of you.

Would I change any of it?
Useless to wish for another self.
Spit out the pips of bitterness.
That fruit is not for you.
Taste instead a lip-licking love.
That hollow word that sings of the longing and the lost.
Which speaks to all the things yet to be understood.

Best of all

The never to be understood.

Cultivate and admire the tree of you, the forest of you.
Gnarled and lumpen and wind-wounded.
You’ll still bloom in the spring.



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