Tuesday, October 19, 2010

That Was September

Friday night, Saturday morning drive:
Blinking heavy. Clotted street. 
Muddy weedy fogginess of:
Too much on my mind
Too many loose ends
Too many little
Pains and frustrations.
Wish = would pass.
I'm not much for conversation;
Fall gratefully to sleep, 
All standing,
Fitful in no less than
Half a dozen dreams on
Separate subjects.
Morning: weary.
Mourning...?
Breathing slows down
To a thread inside.
Like I shouldn't be there,
"hidden" in the kitchen.
But coffee cheers a little 
In the smattered shade
Of a lonely tree.
Creeping ivy.
Sun down:
Sporadic reading
Chewing cuticles
Sore and bloody.
Lean just breathing 
Against the wall.
Half past one before
The witches' hour:
The wake
Of a whirlwind.
Can we objectify 
Spirit? 
Maybe.

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