can I have a sip from your care?
can I slurp to express my joy?
can I spill and stain to reveal?
how much can a need come to feel,
to reveal that I write
in white chalk before me,
to present myself
with the stare-down
of sullen common sense?
I am baffled
by the stampede of meaning's secretions.
the worst silently shares its sopping fear within me.
I am the catastrophe whisperer.
unhappy conclusions are hiding but abound.
the world of itself is willowy,
as other humans might say.
I don't see it that way.
we are all in need of care by the carloads.
we need custody of spirit as our concern,
commitment to comprehensive coherence,
and radical mutuality beyond belief.
can I have a sip from your care?
can I slurp to express my joy?
can I spill and stain to express?
for how much can a need
come to be a feel?
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