for everything which is yes

Some days, she is hard
to keep pace with. Some days, I
don’t even lace up.

Atalanta must
be my muse. She pushes me
out, and there I see.

The devil roams ’round
day and night. Only God rests.
Naps, then, are divine.

Old Barn seems worn down,
as if nothing new appeared
under the warm sun.

Routine: the father
of “What can I get away
with?” Like…does this count?

Fed only by the
fake I hate, misplaced, this place
is not camp or coast.

This lavender light…
I’m not even upset that
the traffic is slow.