Monday, January 28, 2013

A Memory Of Honeysuckle

A wind - a storm really - begins audibly to the north. He says he is no longer happy while walking. I do not have the capacity for the sustained focus a career requires. Thus the world, thus this.

Pictures of ducks, lots of television, maybe a bear. We are not the custodians we think we are. You arrive late and we wander in circles, trying to find each other. What do I really want really?

Most holy of befriendings? Rhyme serves no useful end anymore. The poem emerges from a memory of honeysuckle and an inclination towards haiku. What is is not and vice-versa.

But on the other hand we can always play guitar together. Coffee heals. The dog's ears perk up when I begin to sing. From the north, wind, and the first flakes of snow.

Eternity is a good idea. Pleroma is a nice word, one I'll be sure to use in a sentence very soon. Touch this, won't you? And we'll all be happy until it's time to start again.

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