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Spiritual hunger has ebbed//
satiated, in dub[i]o[us] fact—
that desire to have things||
feed the null set ¥ stuff
new abysses with light, possibly color•
<< impossible
burnt sienna~~inside a company>>
an ongoing
conversation with
the universe.
It’s not like it was anymore~~ and thus,
never shall be ¥ >> merely another
super|imposition•.
varnished doors keep breeding
more doors, tunnels, and bridges
through nights of
crushed oleaginous velvet. My
forest owl continues
writing its poem; the once-homeless poet*
dog smiles. Wet peat-moss
ground has shifted our
common ground; bending
forever—the
roads with their
attendant anxieties. Imagination
knows what might
go wrong—or right, one
reminds the
self hopelessly lost
in shuffle–
The final days of sum*
mer eluded. There was no
music, just rain. The gar*
den ran wild toward
the sun.
Autumn began her
delicate footfall—stepping
in
with a slight chill;
condensation on
car windows. One
must clean the ga*
rage, make
room for kaleido*
scopic after*
maths of objects and
their objections
to memory.
This year, I swear
on my father’s grave–I shall
clean the gut[ters] aft[er]
the old red
maple gives up
her wither-crunched
tan [l]eaves–I will
answer when you
call [me].
Until then, you can
find me on the
rotting picnic bench
of my childhood
[adorned with soft,
emerald moss]—
singing atonal arias
to the discombobulated
Ghosts of the House—about
the cold, rusted p[or]ch s*wings
of the encroaching
long winter–
[ab]out longing
to be [a
better] human.