This is Blooming by Max Temnogorod

Attempts to step again are always fresh prints in the only direction. I just changed my mind one thousand times and heard this.

Something was true and I struggled to taste it against myself while searching for sticks on the forest floor. Never the same harvest. We kept

in the general direction of a treehouse and came upon outgoing traffic, in other words, a fully experienced waveform of spiders.

Yet always managing to return home reupholstered, the details didn’t matter. An open trick is being there for each waking iteration.

We get it, grand dukes and the flower alike, without request. Everyone sees that the beehive fell into the snow and that’s that. Nothing left

to say that isn’t suggested by the parachute jump, its gestural topology becoming my native glow as I’m pulled home backward.