cloudward

bedroom airplane

The stones of summer,

remain covered now in moss.

my shadow against the pavement

reminds of mirrors and stolen faces.

we have now,

the very compelling urgency of imminent departure.

Examine the thought,

“what if it were all over today?”

And yes, so what if it was>?

this tragictory keeps us without a lanyard,

without that thread connected to the long unraveling sweater.

I am victim to my own experimentation and flippery, as in some elegant hobotry,

seen in intelligent mad ravings

scanning through faces and knowing which

are people who expect to live past 25

and those who don’t.

wild cuckoo birds in walnut trees

sing we love you we love you we love you.

don’t stand at the top of the stairs

with your back to the fallter,

the square steps are not gentle on the way down,

when it’s time to go out running in the melancholy of april

or the glory of september,

it is just me and the squirrels

always so busy,

and my head cloudward

always now,

cloudword.

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