this one’s for the soft touch
in me, signs and
I won’t do anything more.

you’re vacillating,
playing scenario and
victim. I am ten inches
taller than I was before
becoming volcanic,
moving neck up
to a martyrdom
I not only asked for,
begged for, wept for.
and first, I want to
say I hope it all works.
second, hope is a feckless
drug but I still walk outside
everyday hoping strangers
let me brush the dogs around
their collars even with
this ill air and I have not stopped
praying since the fervent need
first took me by the
finest strands,
held me under

there’s love.

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