show me all the pretty worlds

you see through the lenses

only you posses.

show me the blooming clover

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,

paint it again and again,

because there is no such thing

as too much beauty

and there is still so much

to be exposed beyond our sins.

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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