number of sips equals number of tastes

cirrus is a smeared, silent language

smother hides mother holds other

more salve in horizons than creeds

thinks spin but a moon librates

we’re ants in the blind search for sweetness

monks can tell one silence from another

in ICU it’s the day and your name

it’s in forgetting, losing North

not long after I’m dead, you’ll be dead

a peppermint brailles in bark

we’re all wide-eyed in the sudden light

a hammer feels the purpose of a nail

and can see the black in the blue