I wear a furtive when I climb up the hill
to deliver the first of the.
Of all of them, the first is the most,
written without hindsight. My blessings
count themselves thusly: if sound
is the prerequisite for searching, if warying
is the prerequisite for laying down with,
if there is something worth facing east for,
then. Extending a single thought has something
to do with the half-shut and the fireplace
filling pails beside a brink. To take my time
coming to (in spite of arrowing triangulation
and every backstory orbiting a thorn) is tricky.
My believing keeps me believing.
An inglenook holds two secrets, one for
each of. My wisteria leads entirely to wisteria.