REGARDLESS

Bent in the field where the weevils skip daffodils
and sundry marvels surpass dreaming in the wee hours
of your awakening, because your head space
is more a broom closet for infinity
than a house where you grief
with a mute god
apparently.

but never actually;
too bloom fisted 
in a dead Eden
to be Quiet. 

so prayers are a flag
in a dead calm
thumbing a
ride.

until you fly 
on your 
own-

Regardless.