the nearest to a holy thing, at times?
do you mean it's a sacred glue?
the holy foreskin ground up with some
old monk's gritty spit in a well-worn
mortar and pestle?
that you lighten a soul's load?
we lost phone and internet
these past few days.
i lost the secret
to call for help.
just after i'd discovered
another "williiam" in the
family, all for trying
to unearth a phone
lose the secrets.
your shoulders will thank you,
even as you curse me.
way belated happy birthday.
so much love.
what's totally screwy? had i my way against secrets,
the truth, tenderness, bills, lola little and the boys on
the bikes on her red dusty roads? your good soul?
i'd type, letter for letter, "Asphodel. That Greeny
Flower," forever and ever, over and over, to you.
with trick candles!
© 2015 L. Ryan