When they said, "like searching
for flowers in a fig tree," they meant
in vain. The embarking on,
the sap we find in our finger grooves,
a certain parse petalessness
like an empty room and the allure
of a life unlikely. Not growing younger
but the negative space
of the unmade up mind,
and those modest, figless self-embraces,
just how nice it sounds to be lonely
when you are not.
To be fair, the trees do flower
and every town is waiting to unfold
into the one in which you still live.
But the fruit is both
product and prolonged. The wasp door,
the sappy tongue loll, the hairless disguise.
The other kind of not-caring, before
the caring too much, before this one.
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