Monday, September 5, 2016

song of the displaced

things should not have occurred otherwise than as they are

I want to soak up
the poetry of the world
that ekes and oozes
out of every corner
of the grass and
shimmers on the undersides
of oak leaves
I want to satiate
my spongy soul
on reality which flickers
in the wings of doves
riding a gust of wind
or does that lope through
speckled shadows
and then squeeze her out,
until the last drop
hits the page
and I am at a loss.

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