Most of the cups in the house are missing a piece.
Not about handles, about completion.
Water pooling in a stray’s footprint: bellybutton heat.
Follow my proof. Faith is the only way to praxis.
Need more hours in the day.
Need more stretch of twilight.
Need more oil for the stop-me-creaking.
Need to know where the fronds land at the end of a dandelion wish.
Yesterday I saw a pair of eyes larger than I’d ever seen.
Today I inherit a million blankets.
Hold me for as long as you are able: Until even those handholds go droop.
Until even our front door receives a root canal.
Until even the first song we danced to becomes the broth.
Not a chain of superstition, a bouquet.