We are headed to the flow chart of memory, a jurisdiction we preside over with happiness.

We are face-down captivated by oil on our pockets’ coins.

We try to be normal but birds have nests have sticks have little holes in them. 

The perfect strand of hair is lost somewhere on one side of a plastic bag or another. 

So we learn to have faith in bendable logic.

Like, we can’t find our kid in our dream, so you find him for us.

Like, if running the sink water down our legs is presented as an outcome of poor decision-making,

Then we know we’re a loaded gun in the new year.

The moment lives on, in the palace, of our regard, and you—you’re in the kitchen.

Yes, our kid likes you and your umbrella.

It’s pouring, so he would like to host all his new words under it:

Plumage, glaucous, wiseacre, transaction…