Home. Park. Moon. Light. The moss on all things felt, green, stink. The wet and blow dry. The shitting of birds on my hair.
Blessed are the work weeks, on the shoulders of clients, in the always-cold inside, sucking it up.
The portions I made up. The skimming of days, the perpetual download, the yearly review. Who Are You Day. Who Do You Day. Think You Are Day.
And the horn of my days growing out of my head.
There are portions and portions and portions.
There are bleating goats on the wheelbarrow. They are unchained. They are furious.