It coughed dust

I was sat waiting, as the Lollipop man ushered children and parents across the street, by chance 'I see God in you' playing out through the open windows, filling the air with its heady perfume.

There is a plant behind my desk. It is dying because I don't know how to keep it alive. I drowned it for a while. It gurgled up the water and then languished in a puddle a whole week before I knew. So I left it, let the soil turn dreary and California dry. It coughed dust. I didn't notice. 

Us is an unformed egg. It exists unruined by my hot and my cold, in-between two places I've not been. It is bare feet on warm pavement, a smooth stone in my hand.
Us is not watered dead or burning in the red wild.

I am a yawn, a solar system,
the final flash of yolk orange light as the sun sets.

You are an always maybe on the tip of my tongue.
An idea forever around a corner.