what is this new low that the self has gracefully reached at where adjusting has paid the price that used to be paid by holding tightly on to one another when has this unbridled restlessness of the spirit like a dark unwieldy northern winter entered which manifestations of assurance will this heart forever miss forever tie-dying itself a new shade of prussian blue as brittle as lapis but as deep.
Mostly I brush life off my shoulder when it falls gently from a tree, or when it grows from my shirt like lint. Mostly i sigh it away like a laugh from an unfounded joke or a waft of extra air in speech. Except sometimes.