It has been a day empty of smooth lines
I have not said them, have not thought,
have just recited syllables that don't connect.
They hitch loosely as my dovetailed sadness
that mismatches vigor from your soul.
I thought I was a young memento, now
I am a series of infractions on the green lawn
where you rest and watch and sail through
your allotted time.
It has been a day of smooth lines I have emptied
from the mist around my life.
I have recited sounds I do not mean to impart
sadness, meaning, sharing.
Any of those motions grow away, and weeds
are thriving in the fine small sprays of rain
each morning prior to the lifing of these blinds.
It has been a day of lies, unkempt decisions,
made, unmade, new linens packed away, and leaving.
I have spoken to my soft heart, teaching it, as if
I might refashion silence into something to be learned
from, not just losing heart and wallowing in fellow
disappointment. Fallow mornings, fallow daylights,
life remade into a spin run slowly into near darkness,
with center field a damp bisected place
we ransack for a way of seeing what we say
exists now, and might live.
3 comments:
it is not known
acquittal thought of my argument is hardly made of sillables
They are assembled on a small board like sadness
harmonized ignition
I thought about the paper receivers of my memory of youth
hour series get on the green board
where the signature is
distributed time
I around
casting of the fog
as my duration
I weigh the calli gram
in the fine small sprayers of the rain
that every morning
is developed next to me
on this very screen
I am
light bulb untidy format
refashioning the silence
nonupdated
.
yes!
:@@:
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