Will you still
pretend I live here when the word is given to
throw thoughts of me away
mean iffy truce—a contingency of unendurable stances meted out in order to suffice.
Will you still concede about the cherry blossoms already? Or will you
Oppose them like you did the ginkgo fruit that fell to vanish in burnt leaves
of the periodic table.
A chemistry of sorts--a wish blown
charade of meat.
Will you still arrive (as in stay, as in hide) when it is dark outside?
Or will you remain (as in under the house, as in inscrutable) as a mark on a leaf?
like the little dribble i feel