It is filthy but imagines itself to be clean, it will be clean, it is made of                stone, it has no cracks downwhich crumbs, it is dirty, it is filthy, it is a foul place, but if you say it is                a heavenit will be a heaven one day in someone else’s mind in someone else’s                apartment in someone else’stelevision over the radio it is awful but say it is right, it is bleeding, it is                all blood,it will not come out, it is damned, but imagine it is soft, loved, wanted,                birthed, it is terminal,like a terminal bud, which means it is green, it is responsible for new                growth, wouldn’t that belovely, even though it is ugly, infected, sickening, quiet, it a painting of                something uglyand that makes it pretty enough, it was imagined to be pretty one day, it                has grown on you,it has grown on us, it is growing, choking, but we can breathe, there is                always room for breath,it will breathe again, it will climb softly over you in the night, while you                are dreaming,it will be holy when you think it to be holy, a moral, it will come to you                in a story,a library book, it is closed now, cut off, blackened, it is charred, but                imagine it to returnunburned, fattened, it is asking to be eaten, it is begging to be thought,                it is begging, it is poor,impoverished, desperate, it almost killed itself but it imagined itself to                keep living and it lives