joy like touch
is far now
I am used to dreaming
all by day following
curious joy but
curiosity
like toilet paper
is sparse now
in this spring whose blooms
and rising lines we fear I
flee joy's flower trampling
it bright as brushfire
in anticipation's fog
or if I stay it is
distant avoiding
any scents unfolding
themselves fighting
the temptation to flight
to remove to sort every
order of events
in compensation for
lacked control but joy's
emergent confusion
if kept from emergency
is yet something
to be sought not
all out of control
is to be feared