I’m hiding transcendental flowers
in survival kits – automobiles
that glide through the arms and mock the mind
on alternate days. I’ll be sued because
I love to break the silence and run on clouds,
screaming for your secret place.
And the precarious urge
looks you in the eye and knows your hurt specifically,
points it out on a blank map – it’s ridiculous.
I’m asking you to climb into my hand.
I’m giving up balancing
to levitate beyond the voids of words.
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