To know what I know, to see what i see
To understand how things could be.
To want to shake it out of people
To coax from the patterns that fall in between the pretty little flowers, their salvation.
Terrifying to have finally arrived at the peak of the mountain, awaiting others’ arrival.
To stock every piece of belly and love in their successes, to be shaken with despair when they are disappointed.
I can see the path, identify the pass, on the ridge, from the edge.
To be the one that remains, after all those fallen before me, a lottery absurd. I would like to collect the cut peonies into a bundle, safe and dry. On a shelf, no vase, no urn. No box, no burial, high up where no thing or time can touch you.
I knew what things were even if you didn’t.