The flippancy that greased the wheels of memory
laid bare a seductive dissonance . . .
There was no avid about it . . .
The app collapsed unremarkably
followed by a flurry of texts to the otherwise . . .
A cafe racer enjoying a coastal route
dotted with encounters
sprouted words to fill your journal . . .
the inconsistency puzzling, yes? . . .
You could have imposed a pattern
but instead ressurected the elements of then . . .
You left no trail . . .
Applying color takes up space
which is, I suppose, your way of doing things . . .
especially with morning trotting out its daily ritual . . .
There were hordes of others . . .
many in and out of dreamscapes
with all the accoutrements you could have imagined . . .
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| Anka Zhuravleva |