stream of conscious | hands in the garden

i’d have posed higher
questions

knowing what i can’t
see now,

do you still read clouds
out loud

or
call doves
to your dreams

and if so,
how?

midday meeting
friendship workload
right on time
for fake
it,

not taken for a
real boy-

all
strings,

salt drips
thru heart’s bricks,

inhale
raw throat dusk,

nothing floods
the well

but echoes become ash
once heard.

drying under
moon,

can’t spot our
reflection

where we were painted
in the sky with
spilt milk,

coasting into
dawn,

in search of
graceful
song

to lament the
downed sky
we both
built.