You flew up and you said: I was once so, so sad, how can I never be sad again? I had this diagrammed, and then after that had it glued from beginning to end.
Yes, for me special questions are best, but I’ll warn that today I’m not smiles, I am gripes, for my son was returned home for being too warm and there’s howling again in the pipes.
Yes, just step on the scale, the brake, a rake; on the pain scale, gentle or rough? There’s no glue to make sense of the things that break, we’re just naming the broken stuff.
Yes, you can take a tour where it all exists, it just sits, it just is, sweet home sweet: yogurt cups, Scottish moors and Pacific mists, and left turns, and rooks in the wheat.
Yes, you did many tries, as reflected in chart, to do something as well as to be, with your tunnel eyes and your narrow heart and one clogged valve that pumps just for me.
Yes, I was ten times three, I walked into a tree predicated on being as glue: to be what makes sense, to be free to be free, to be long, deep and close with a few.
Yes, the question was “Now what?” and both “Nothing!” and “I-love-you!” were true enough; a forget-me-not, no-can-do-anything, and i-love-you is just naming stuff.
Yes, we can take a tour where it all exists, take a look, take a day, play a game, maybe we can stay out till it’s ten times six, see how many rooks we can name.
Yes, we are getting stuck, but also unglued, gotta make sure we’re lodged for the night, yes, I’m getting annoyed, yes, I am getting short, every day, both in temper and height.
Yes, please step off the scale, the brake, the rake; on the scale, where are you, one to ten? I normally write down the pulse that I take, just forgot what the question was then.
Rakes are stacked in the shed, time is spooled in the watch, rooks are strewn in good disharmony; I’m a cobbler unshod, just don’t die while I watch, and perhaps don’t ask so much of me.

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