i blew a hint, a feather passed;
like months, it was stitched.
now, i look deep inside the well. i wonder about the many seeds i have thrown into perdition. inside—in daturas, in mentzelias, in ipomoeas—, the blooming of my will. they are arcane motes, specks in the dusk, sheaths with hearts in the heart of all hearts.
i kept, and i will keep seeing you,
long after the eyelids fall.