canny valley vistas

Sometimes
I have an uncanny
sense that our
conversation is composed
of streams
of endlessly effortless
such small adjustments.
A continually unfolding perpetuity,
a felicity self-correcting,
in mechanism
like petals spun open
beewise in the sun. 

Other times I'm like, hey

That could strike some as a bit "much," but
probably they're not going to say it. So
who does that leave? To say such
things
to

us 

Just so some one does, 
that's the main thing. You can't leave
true shit like that lying
around
unsaid.