show me all the pretty worlds
you see through the lenses
only you posses.
show me how the posies bloom
in your neighborhood,
how the sun sets and rises
by the ridges around your town.
write me a poem about how you get down.
angels arrive above every day
with only their ancient chorus
of buzzing flies and drown-out ocean wave symphonies
because we never got to
applaud the fallen leaves
on the sidewalk outside their office door.
you are not a bore.
tell me how your bed creaks
when your lover wakes up for water
in the middle of the night.
how sweet does your newborn’s head smell
rocking to sleep at the three a.m. feeding?
type click-clacking on the keyboard,
or if you’re lucky, ding
for the typewriter queens and kings,
even a soft scribble on notebook lines
is the luckiest many will get
if we survivors find them in time,
tightly-bound in the ceder chest
under great grandma’s afghans.
snap another pixelgraph
and share it again and again
because there is no such thing
as too much beauty
and there is still so much
to be exposed.
tell me again,
keep me in the throes
of captivation.
caption your world in your own words,
we’ve heard it all before
but we want more.
you are not a bore.
give it your all,
we’re awaiting your lore.

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