Only so much room in a lifeboat,
half-capacity sixareen.
Bushel basket.
Butcher.
Baker. Maybe
a candlestick-maker;
the notables cross over
in threesomes.
Synchronicities flutter in threes,
casually. Historically
informed,
hinting at world harmony;
a table of elements
that dissolves on the tongue
like rice paper, moths.
This time it's fresh;
just the northeast wind.
Ball of string. Buttermilk
sky.
A buoyant list scrawled
on a paper kite:
1. I am loved
2. There is solace
There is no third thing.
tk/September 2014
Beautiful read by R.A.D. Stainforth...and a bit of music as well...
