5. Just as itโs wrong to presuppose the ending of enigmatic snowstorms. But in my red-mittened me, I do anyways. I desire to guzzle hot chocolate โ to melt my stomach into card games and kashmir naps. I do hope for things.
6. That way I can sit besides the likes of Louis Armstrong, and his sunshine softened songs. Or walk alone awhile
8. But the second act, that โ thatโs when it all happens. The crackled doorways I mean. Where he touches wrists and weeps, though only gently. And where a woman in wailing cloths says something about hallelujah. And David trembles under glory.
10. of David and his majesty. The type that cries Bathsheba and glory in a shattering of teeth. Thatโs what makes me tremble
11. But so does Stevie Wonder โ his own s h a t t e r i n g calamity. An outpouring and unpouring of orchestrated chaos so closely resembling me.
12. But I suppose thatโs where I end in the end โ with fruity lattes, terrible poems, and sunsets that only preclude the rest of it.
13. So as butterflies sit cordially at crusted tables in my stomach โ sucking salty cigars and blowing smoke into my lungs, their wings vomit creative storms
