Almost empty, and the four wheel drive is out.
But it's Spring now.
In winter I fell on the ground and left
little pieces of me in gravel.
They are growing up now,
eager to meet tornadoes
but I have yet to introduce them to rain.
Recycling the way you say the letter
I concern myself only with the
last half of the alphabet,
which tastes like little agnostic pecan trees.
Drip drying, dancing to Harvest Moon.
Can I just give myself to you
me wrapped in paper?
Breaking your good posture around me,
collapsing in the irony of your drowning.
In giving and growing, I warm
puddles in the street, with your help.
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