He asked me to persuade him
I don’t deal in the business of convincing
Truth is it doesn’t matter what or where
He does
He is
Fields of wildflowers
His own avowed reflection to make out in the mirror as the steam of his question disperses
Queen Anne’s Lace garlands the highway
I pick it, poppies and a single dandelion with 7 year old hands
They dance in the fields
Fields of wildflowers are dancing in me
She asks how I can leave it alone
I don’t deal in the business of bombarding
Truth is it doesn’t matter how or why
I do
I am
Avowedly
S
O
L
I
T
U
D
E
Solitude is English Ivy planted in my toes
Creeping up my shins
He is swinging from the vines
Tugging at my skin
A marble angel draped over a grave
He teases her soul up and above
Pulls it like old fashioned taffy
Chews on it like tobacco like
The wind chews at the rocks in the desert
Eroded by nonsense
Baptized in “if this then that”
Tattooed by rain
