the drama we convey
we say
a story
a play
like a game of climbing above
where we are at
to make the world flat
so we can say that a map
has managed to trap
something of the essence
spark from a synapse
a finger snaps
a eureka moment that blooms
like le fleur de mals in the wasteland
all that jazz
turning hands into chaos butterflies
a migratory path through a typewriter
can we be lemon nostalgia?
can we be aniseed lean leaning into?
the things we have seen, too
much
are things we no longer care to touch
now a story for someone else
kept away from the centre of self
his silence is a cherished wealth