Are you still pressing flowers into paste?
Filling mason jars with moss and false memories
to share with lovers who have hands filled
with thumb rings
and not-quite-copper pennies?
Pits of mud in your backyard-
dirty your dress,
just for fun.
Sit in the sun
and bake your leggings into your skin
chewing on poinsettia stems
with Whitman verses on your tongue.
Have you yet sung the song of yourself?
I have known you not to loaf,
as one should.
Biased blades of grass,
I have lost you within the sea,
Timekeep as a prayer,
that we may again see the light we felt
Still Alexander Supertramp
Still a candid fallacy