Flowers of Hope We going to blow ourselves up? I don’t know. Potential’s always there. Even if we crush the weapons into useless bits of dust, there could be someone, right? Planning something? It’s just my brain. The house is clean, perhaps too clean, the kind of saintly clean which only virtue can reveal in hearts that know sin, like kindly ones; born in hell, dwell in heaven. The desk I’m at is here this now, I know that much, because I’m here to see it’s so, but otherwise uncertainty rules the day. What is the chance that brains line up? That armies of regret can turn to hope as one and flow in harmonizing natural displays?
Tom Bauer is an old coot who did a bunch of university and stuff. He
lives in Montreal and plays board games.