in my mind I'm a-dandering
in a cutty-pipe inglenook
casting a glamour ambrosia
winnock-ed and unchancy
upon those who dare look
(and so it became a poem/in succubus calm tricks of the
eyes/street corner wise/with ambulatory skills then needed to
assemble the post parade in triage)
I told myself, never eat until stuffed
but now you're here, I am
making an exception, I am making
eating all of you the rule
these storms, in me
of having a conscience
or a conscious apathy
are both a tide and spawn
gamble on eroding dawn
as they roll on up
spotted
leopards
with bits
of blue eyes
getting through
a back line
of bird calls
trapping me inside
the burgeoning pour
of belly rain this day
what if I were the bot
and not body and soul
what if I am
just bones with holes
where light got in
what if each life
was mostly connected somehow
by how we sorted
our seasonal movements
the desires, we took ownership of...
the innate music
we felt the need to be part of
needs to belong to some things
we could bleed out with
that were wholly ours, like...
the maples here being poems too
nearing, the end of Winter
the tall and small things
beneath the clandestine roars
of clocks and calendars, counting
reason or not to be
in ever-circling time...
elliptical rituals
heralds, trumpets and flowers
seeded beneath the roar of wind
maples here are tine-d and tied
spine-d thin fingers
reaching for all the words
we want with
when filling in
the views
EJR ©
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