a painting
with a mermaid
floating
in
the
ever
blueness
and she hung it
on her bookcase
near the window
with duct tape
and spit
one day
in the drama
of what she was
she threw a pillow
into the air
(or was it a stuffed
animal?)
it flipped
her siren of the sea
off her
lowe's discount perch
and splashed
into
the
endless
clutter
of everything that made
marie kondo cry
now she swims
in the memory
of surprises and
birthdays and
unspeakable love
waiting for
the day she's
discovered in the
dust
conversing with
keats and keene
and bukowski
until then
(swim)
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