I want things purple deep in the cavity of my chest let them fester restless and disturbed logical responses to a storm of discontent all around us Hope always invisibly cloaks me until it peels away like waxy rice paper soaked with uncalibrated optimism I have no choice but tend to this garden toe the line between critic (scholar) and crazy (logical) most of these ideas, these nice intentions they won't make it to winter I'll pickle them in jars like turnips they'll be lucky to make the side of your plate keep me safe in your peripheral vision where I can worm my way through the cracks of what we were told to what we know we deserve I'm angry, angry, angry I lack precision I lack your steady hands I am grateful for this absence. "What a shame . . . " (she would have made a great politician)