About the garden. Will we still walk, bodies filled up. Rich with water dreamt under scars, harvesting
the profanity (unspeakable) of sensible fears. How long to scrub memory of skin: sludge between toes,
honeyed extinction/slippery pleasure, cold and wet under/sweltering rays. There’s nothing more
refreshing than washing away/Or planning to leave. Because January rides/stripped soil and staying
means/staking eyes so tired lids only see the language of eternal vacation, closing this version of once
upon a final goodbye.