• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 05
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why not utopia,

she said, as she picked up a flower
from a vase. A flower from a bouquet bought
for her birthday, unwrapped of its cellophane
to claim the edge of a windowsill as its fleeting domain.
what a sad kingdom, she said,
a world without tender words nor wisdom,
without winds that travel and whisper
into an ear of wheat. I couldn’t phantom a life without fields
that sprawl along rivers carrying our grievances,
pouring them into a tidal cradle of salt.
Now answer me this, she said, as she looked into a petal,
have you seen how the sea mimics the sky?
do you think that is a coincidence?