Jinxes of another nature

In the swollen seasons, you only ever break your own heart.
This is why the pangs of the baby are all long-forgotten.
You may never fully harness that which repeatedly unbridles itself;
that, needless to see, is the desire of a woman, as opposed to the desire for her.
After all, the horses of the occasion are left to fend the rapids.
Neither foalers nor mounts, they.
Let this be the punch to your gullet that I intend.
And a loose scarf eeled out the car window: that, too.
I find it humbling that I’m the same dumb fool-for-love I was 10 years ago.
Some babies are born and born and born and born.
This season swells.
We ain’t found bedrock yet.


It seems the only way I can keep my lines in blogger is to make things tiny. Sorry!