A distressingconsequence of my depressionis reduction of everythingto only literal. I see a dahliaand express nice flower.Still able to name things,I say that’s a dahlia,but nothing more. No starshine,no tiny village, no lover’s lips
in its showy display.Observing the short spacebetween laughing until tearsand the sullen walk home,I am unable to describe it.Only when close behinda port-a-john sloppilylashed to a pickup truckdo metaphors come in a rush.With a holy shitI visualize a vast arrayof what could possibly go wrongbut no answers
Late! But whatever. Sharing in the Imaginary Garden for Sanaa’s first Tuesday Platform