All You Are

You and Charles Bukowski would slam your heads on a wall till you shatter apart.

But to be a flowering vine

pushing through time would 

ease it down so sweetly.

And to 

slow-dance with it, 

explore

every crack

and 

float your leaves out to touch the night, to stretch, 

and curl, 

and relish in your decay because 

you are all 

you are.