Tuesday, August 22, 2017

More, For Glory

I’m in my acknowledgement phase, a cave of my undesign. I slip into rare bends as the dog sleeps. All the couches of our civilized world end with something we call metaphoric togetherness. Like the wild pool fills with me and you gather in a sliding song of blanket chance. Then the lions lurch forward and my hair steams off…purity for the day. That’s the line and I am the ticket. We are the angry ones, the ones who love the beginning and we put trees into space. Yes for you, nothing for the restaurant where we meet in ten years. It’s always this boyish huddle, on the bed, in the little cuts we call style, over the incessant drumming. That was how we saw what we needed: so much meaning that sketches couldn’t be ignored, like the fine horizon. See, there we are at the middle and you along my arm, outrigged and beaming. I saw you and I gathered you under my coat, in the love of lost glances. I would make this new for us, if we could share what it is again today for the mastery we need, like a river. 

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