The joy is constructed as the weakness of bluebells in the river's surface.
(chuckle I hold your hand)
Washed by the waters of misery, they turn away, mutilate, destroy, and sink, wipe out or
continue to float to the back corner
(chuckle I kiss your hand)
where enjoy your dreams and all the blue flowers of the poets.
(Cover your hands in mine, to be so until the last shadow
or in the nest of your arms, where the memories fly) ©
