hank. born.


i feel i’ve planted something
here, by this place for words
but forgotten to water it or
something equally as life
threatening. i return with some
regularity to check on things but
find the withering distressing
and move on, blaming my lack
of a green thumb for the death
here. the decay. but I know a
bit of elbow grease and forgetting
for a moment myself for the sake
of these organisms would do some
good. i’m just unsure of how to
proceed from here. i know its
hard to begin to kneel and get to
the work when your back is
out of shape from lack of kneeling.

and these fingers. they need newly
acquired calluses.

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