In Our Laps We Hold Our Lapses. In Our Hands We Hold Each Others.

I’ve pealed away the cellophane from this oh so poised typewriter and already I have tarnished its pearly white keys

Crisp pieces of bleached paper lay ready to be used

As skeptical found itself to be an antonym in my prior late night coffee crossword

You see perfection is my phobia

And this is not perjury that pours from my lips as I press them against yours

So when suburbia fades into symphonies of grass patches

The void will cheat in tongues

You shall be free to test the timing as I will be stranded on this step

I was here when they uprooted a garden only to watch the soil starve

They took photographs to remember what survival looked like

And that night, we all danced barefoot

As I picked you a bouquet of keys

From the incoherent weeds

Will you make yourself at garden?

Will you embrace this design?

For I am so deep in this, I am at a loss for words

Joshua Tool – 09/01/2006

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