In my illusion
of minimalism
I scored my first wormhole on schedule. The entity, no,
I should say the accretion settled down
& got lost and scattered trying to remember

Walking away from the June-July beach

— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs as the wagon sways
with fellowship. Love in the future, a handshake spreads the rain,

flowers, rain,

flowers.

(That's it!

The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we
can walk on with. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our widows.

This is spring history.)