Eve Rounds

(over)ask don’t tell policy

a lesser known jewish proverb goes like this…
PoachEgg2
a young lady and a wise gentleman sat across from one another, sharing a plate of poached eggs.

the young lady confided in the wise gentleman.
“Wise Gentleman, I can’t seem to get what i want. I ask and I’m open to receiving, but every time I almost have it, it turns the other way. Happiness is swerving from my soul, Wise Gentleman!”.

the wise gentleman was instantaneously exasperated by the perceptive young lady’s lack of perception in that moment, and expressed this exasperation perching his glasses atop his immaculate dome. and while this gesture had become quite familiar to the young lady, in this particular instance, the black frames seemed relentless in their pursuit to peck through the white aura of his wisdom. the wise gentleman’s uncharacteristically sober face hovered recklessly close to the plate of poached eggs, which the young lady was still attempting to transfer onto her side of corn arepas.
“Young Lady, this is a clear case of UNDERasking. You aren’t asking for enough. Your soul expects you to expect more and the universe wants you to have it. Simple.As.That. So ask for more, Young Lady.”

the young lady had never thought of this. “Ask for even more?!”. she pondered. she sobbed a little. and finally she sideways smiled.

suddenly and somehow sensically, the wise gentlemen was onto his thesis of pregnancy being a metaphor for change which was surely a revelation but the young lady really just wanted to finish their shared plate of poached eggs.
so she did.

but ok but

write some poems that i can give him ok (but they’ll all be about the hims) good idea bad idea no good twinning and losing

a 5 7 5 for e

peering through thick glass your back to me is waiting any news at all? running down broad steps into your brotherly arms crying without breath!

incircles

is it the ticking of the third hand or the faucet dripping onto discount bulk blueberries both measuring time “going in circles” as he would

a poem about you for you (and you)

you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love

i don’t even know

how long it’s been. haven’t been counting days haven’t counted backwards on the calendar. haven’t bothered to reread my own words. haven’t been missing you

the five senses

your blue eyes and crooked lippy smile which i inherited that tiny soft bristle brush for your basically bald head the white corvette a campfire cards