White flags pitched in the lawn like sad seeds, the flecks of blue
and red blinking in the wind/ innuendo is a close word, it touches my
tongue with perfect nuance and gives none away. Like that time I won
my own heart in a dance, something about how I could glide through the
air and land in a split, smiling, made me a technology I wanted to caress and
witness forever, where the anniversary party is this quiet candlelit
almost vigil punctuated by a crude exhilaration marked with the thrill
of survival, ritual, renewal, a power stronger than itself— is love, but
that's so trite even on nationalism and good grass, I almost won't admit it
until it's tragic or a some kind of risk or gasp or actually happening
and impossible at the same time like those invisible stars flickering as
soon as you look away, tricking you into having mercy on yourself
