Large festival my friends were sneaking in for some rule breaking or something
And now it was the second year they were back
Large stage with many rooms etc
And they in costumes and I made a piece of many light things
A pile of things but I had to go out and do something else
But the pile of light things was so aesthetically pleasing in the end
I would go to the celebration of the young poet
and I would give her some of this
I would give her (and the room) the hollow pit
of my morning, construction and rain
how my laundromats are all gone
this is my morning
the dying alarm in the hallway squeaks
my building that heard the desperate sounds of my young
dog being retraumatized by the abandonment
caused by travel, my poetry mostly
poetry is cruel Sasha and poetry is cruel
Ashley D. The squeak in my halls is unkind.
The clatter continues into my day, the rustling of wood and
boards. This is not what I needed to write. 
Yes it is. Yes it is.