Jog towards a wandering glimpse of future, what is this
Wanderlust or some other pageless phrase
With no delineation of tasks or conversely

Freeing engagements, it’s a hustle
To the chair,
To a door that is closed and filled with the hum
Of a white and perfected mind.

I see the sand of some clawed for talent,
Broken by the immediacy of sloth and aged
In the sedation of being in love.

And it waits in a sloppy car and breaths
Shallow or deep but unaccountable to me.
The wish that is old and oxidized green and O
O so beautiful is this house that I have forgotten.