Greetings From >>>>

In the patio, the dream of a garden century. An elderly woman was interviewed this morning in her garden, where she has tended her impatiens for 100 years. In this life or the next, will you walk past these pink globules and think of our first summer, loading salmon touch-me-nots into box truck sanctums? Sweat and dirt oracles on brief skin. I forgive you for no longer being that man because I am not longer that woman. Since then, much sleeted travel, a car buried in snow, doors ajar. Plucking red berries that remind you of your known fruit yet remind me of a home ripe in pomegranate parks. I have never been there. How do you define homebound? Every night in this city without you, I've dreamt of presences: loose jaws, nakedness that is not given, but stripped, hiding in small boxes, constantly the color crimson in an uncanny valley. It is all vicissitudes of our cancer phantasma. These manifestations, lifeless eyes devoid of understanding forgiveness, and the subsequent birth of a new joy (that I hope you can feel from our small place tonight.) I listened to the gardener speak of her flowers, brief apertures of you come, delight, and pixilate, fingertips trailing across a canvas of springblooms. The Latin literal translation of impatient: capsules of the plant, at first touch, cannot help but burst.