sated ovenbird There are flowers pressed between the leaves of this old book: creeping buttercup faded and flayed, pansies bleeding purple onto the pages, clover climbing the binding. All exhausted imprints of themselves, colours discarded like party clothes at the end of the night, petals torn like cheap nylons. I say to you, “I want this tendril of time to live forever.” I'm already trying to press the memory flat. But I can't keep this, I can only live it. I can't preserve it, I can only feel it. So let me feel it all before I am cut back to the rhizome that sent me seeking the sky, sated from the solace of being held, belly full of sunlight. 250729 what's it to you? who go blather from