4/8: “blossom, blossom, blossom”

sweet blossoms, what do you abide here, in the gloom, where sun won’t shine, impermissible to reveal yourself, insisting you remain black and white when you yourself are a prism of color, of raindrops and teeth and ringlets and fingertips, grasping wet fingertips in the storm, reaching, unfolding, knuckle by knuckle, inch by bloody inch, … Read more4/8: “blossom, blossom, blossom”