What It’s Like To Die

The Universe tripped over sunspots, again.

Bring your bees to breakfast.Β  We are born over each time the coffee pot whistles.

You reach for your strings, and I, my words, and we test out late afternoon’s

empty window. You’ll have to forgive my shaky palms and I’ll forgive your noise – we’re too soon out of blue

pills to rediscover God’s crushes and cues.

Space becomes urgent in your empty t-shirt, I spill over the kitchen counter

where love with you, is walking through a dead Universe, over and over.


18 thoughts on “What It’s Like To Die

  1. Maggie…

    Heyoka woman… that’s what you are…. Powerfully fractal, your mind works in algorithms of surpassing insistence, made of words instead of numbers… Keeping up with you is riding a roller coaster on the Moon…



    gigoid, the dubious


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