It surprised no one--
the hang of feeling,
the medium of passion.
In the cold, those
harsh babies--bloated,
gaudy--claimed commitment.
With the bottle, the smell
of private love, lean,
drooping too large--
chemistry liberated.
After the war,
he did not speak. Life,
its routine tidiness,
stifled the peace.
His first love, old,
bought secondhand silver.
With some guilt,
no outward hostility,
he accepted affairs.
Exhausted, his forgiveness
lay propped up. He squeezed it.
There was nothing.
2 hours ago
3 comments:
Your poetry has such exquisite control over tone and depth of thought these days. It is going beyond,
Haunting and resonant, your words cling to my mind. What more can we ask of poetry?
Beyond beyond and back again. Thanks for reading, y'all.
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