because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse


squinting at the
clock in the kitchen as it winds slowly
toward the end of an hour or an epoch,
i sit at my window, look away:
at the ground below bogged down
in indecision, up brooding at gray skies,
out at the flowers i planted
with so much care, coaxed in
by another season, another lifetime;
now they too are grown
wild and inaesthetic, incomprehensible.
isn’t this always how it ends?


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