Going on a great January
soon after the coldest fog lifts
and I catch its drag,
an orb of sensed muscles
tight and blue from an emotional
hibernation. They say you see one
in a photograph and that's a ghost. "She"
is the most beautiful
word I can think
of and it is as far as
anything. I could kill
To have your place for a weekend
without you
but give of me
a house of toil,
Lord: it is past our time,
our space is the illusion of long letters & leafy pokes,
what distant falls -- shuffling companions
to the way.
Your confusion brings us,
makes us a town; much movement. Just heard all over,
like a warm bath, stepping out the shower.
Suddenly, I am
with expansion and fantasies
of girls without much brains, curled
up, content, thin, and happy with old, rotten
me, my stink, and the boredom of my tastes.
Year round it gets like this, watching music
become a periphery.
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