you drag your ears through flower beds and sift out all the cigarettes, you plunge your hand into a tree and take from it it's memories, you hear your mother singing sweet but disregard her melody while mending may and eloise and david with some pale green douglas fir and willow leaves, gently making something breathe.

you use the blood from friends you had to warm the dirt, the leafy patch. the garden grows towards the lake and nothing now quite looks the same. and vines have now so suddenly become something like history.

there is a song, in a or b, that burns down all the forest trees. but when you play the final chord, your capillaries turn to stone. so go ahead and search your chest, the slugs and inchworms know it best.

you drag your ears through flower beds and sift out all the cigarettes, you plunge your hand into a tree and take from it it's memories.

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