The middle phalanx of

the middle finger of

your woman was the

measurement for a house

build

Now it's someone's standard

you don't even know

These thoughts sit on my face

skewing my divine geometry

The flowers will die

the tea is consumed

snow melts

beauty wastes away

That's why I gather it

with hands, my being

my body. I want it all 

to be here now. My favourite

pause, besides you