there is no space for you, for you, you individual haphazard, arrangement of keys long expired.
you are expired milk, you are an angel's bedridden woes, 3 a.m night hawks seeking the next blue stream. where blue rivers run, i am dry hearted picture frames holding specks of dust and other unidentifiable things.
now life is an origami crane rotating on itself, or a double staged play with actors on each side swapping roles and lines until everything dissolves borders and the audience scatters with their own tragedy.
now many things are overdue and its years condensed in images and follies lay beside you in sleepless nations waiting to be held, by arms cradling the burning flags.
i met a girl who wandered across life searching for her 7-year-old dream and found it in boston square, and another who wanders and is still wandering down there where the river streams.