O, to be new and to yearn;
when my burden is dreams
untamped
untoppled
inevitably unwise,
leftover evergreen haystacks upon
bamboo and bits of forest, sun filled
powdered sugar dreams
with no good reason
except for every reason.

What I pine for now is solitude;
I do so in thin swallows from
the small of my throat
like a fish in foam;
it wakes me from slumber,
these fragrant demands for
action or release or attention or
anything
except repression.
That would never do.

So I release to myself;
I have spent the morning vacuuming
and I long to enjoy the scent
of warm consciousness.
Forest sounds slip past fragile ears
and I find
I regret none of it.
I could doze here amongst the lovers,
doing my part endlessly,
flirting with the dandelions.