It’s rare to stumble across this:

Land left without a manicure,

Raw nature, standing untended

Or, at least, unchanged for a while,

Allowed to spread its arms and breathe,

To relax, far from the treadmill.

Behind the padlock on the gate,

A run-down, flaking, disused shed

Is masked by brambles, overgrown;

A rusty post clasped half-way up

By suffocating, unscythed grass.

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Once in a blue moon and many light years ago,
Otherworldly starseeds began to incarnate,
and add to the menageries of the Milky Way's sacral space

in-between you and I: What a “sui generis”-jagged siamese
piece of a memory
with our other half
—filling us in—
on where we’ve been our whole life

So as to make known, any preconceived notion; shown in its true light, and meant to be…the des...

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