I hold in hands that weave the wind
around somehow supple senses
a small and childish breath
and fingers touch creation
drawing dreams in sparkles that spiral
between every cell of me
I cradle a letter
so solitary
in its own being of something more
than ever all said would never be
singularity solidified
in this
consonantal egg.

padded prints
worship
this frailty
a tottering tip
an existential shell
that bears the brunt
of
a delineated being
someone's picture perfect me.

I still toe a line
cloaked in amber ambiguity
cornered darkness draped
in dripping retribution:

tonight I love this letter
tonight I started hate.

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