you can
weave me yet another day
so that I can knit those gaps
that I might sow some silvery threads
then “later on” perhaps
you can exhale me out some milky clouds
so I can kiss them in
that I might exhale and blow them out
then we can both fall in
now I’m lost and lonely like a cloud
that floats on high without a song
all those bloody daffodils
where did it all go wrong?
