by David Blue horns down June's gulley were the Wicca of my little abdomen, predominant of age
ever I dreaded the wait's weight so crushing on that island of a lot that is really amany, but my memory…
how many times would little me imagine me now, remembering?
how would we - before the gulley - become so bleak as to miss completely the words spoken to stay so long?
the fear of impermanence the visceral reality the simple notion:
nothing is forever nor can it be nor should it