what is happening is only happening

Again, Spring tramples the slurry of death like a white warhorse’s blood-caked haunches pounding fertile earth cracking and spurting the green orgasm of intentional chaos into forgetting the memory of decay.

Unlike where I spit the chlorine out to gasp through vapors, I see your legs through water in my eyes, but its a rusted chair, and the sound of birds and wind cups my ears.

Cruel warming blues, what is happening is only happening. I scrape and stretch to make sense of phenomena only privilege provides the moments of chewing to swallow down sticky, swollen throats.

Is it love or is it fear, that feel the same but think differently? I’ll never know until the seasons change and I’m left with more weeds to pull than leaves to rake.