A hole covered in moss. I visit you there, from time to time to time to ti-. I’m sorry. I’ve lost my little sliver of the future again. How do you stay so unlatched from this? This being you. This being the space between the song & the ear. Don’t answer me. I hear water. A ﬂood is just another way to move. Your delicate cycle of arms. Lift, says the ﬂower. I can’t, says the way things don’t look how you thought they did. A spine is just another way to shackle. Go big or go home. Sometimes, one time, when the walls are closing in, it’s nice to wonder if they are trying to bend you into a better shape.