waking up in an abandoned parking lot
to the singing of birds
perched atop the branches of magnolia trees
and 4 missed calls.
finding subtle comfort in how
piled in pink the leaves seemed almost real;
drawn and casted by some corporation
focus-testing whimsy.
standing in the shadowtree,
tinted rose and fastened at
the eyes; all that we had thought to be
was slightly out of reach—
finding prose and poetry
when lately we’ve been distant,
a forced-flushéd rosy cheek
and everything feels unfamiliar.
Luis Vidrio lies when he says he wants to be remembered.
