The Rose of Sharon

Dawn does not always heal. Whiffs of night jasmine in a sweet cold breeze. The Rose of Sharon. The pink kiss mark in your favorite book. The grooves of punishment. The ache of broken trust. I need an electrician and a get out of jail free card. The invisible bruise. The sandy texture and weight of bone. Sunlight reveals the real.

Waiting for something tender and concrete. Associations of men, men, and men inspires desire, intrinsic like death, the inevitable shit show, like the emergence of spring for a grizzly whose mornings come like no coffee and a bank balance of negative worth. I'm lonely. But covered softly in green like fireworks and newborn eagles. Protected by shadows, whores, and lepers. Jesus rose after three days, I would have suggested he just stay down.