on a morning when cricket sat on a blade of grass

The morning is muddy when I take it from the clothesline.

The blue colour at the corner of my vision, is that it? The ‘it’ slowly grows large becomes him, tall in blue slacks – the blue of my dreams that he cannot fathom. And is it over, after the singular contact of eyes near the flight of stairs, where singular means one of its kind.

There are people in every grain of sand, in each cell of memory, walking paths that take them away from me.

My heart sits on a blade of grass like a cricket, that you want to possess. A ray of light snaps the insect, holds it so you see you cannot touch it.

Love is that.

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