To a Stranger on a Bus

I worry about the way you worry about how you think you smell?
What do I believe in? Really?
The fairy snow.
The zealotry.
How an entire body can live off the "if" marrow.
There are things I don't believe.
I don't think we will know in years.
Even doves. Even loves.
Odd doves. Odd loves.
I won't really acknowledge Abba or Buddha as going overboard
even if it ends in a panda blank wall stare,
unable to even ask for Help.
When you will sleep I will read yours.
Now he is years.
Count the same thing for sanity.
Count deaths.
Discount the niching in words after you count humans.
Count animals within the count of these concepts of returned sparrows.

That in your sanity you are composed of many griefs.

Forms of language, behavior, transparencies
which deny the concept of the Cell.

Count the cunning in nothing but a clock.

Kiss off an Arbus...