Friday, March 23, 2018

hunger whets the pen

How many hours are there in a week?
Mental math occupies my way to mass—

I notice midway through the afternoon:
one cuff of my jeans is folded higher than
the other.
My legs are shapely,
but off-balance.
Asymmetry's a sure-fire sign

Every thought I've left at the altar,
every poem inspired by distracted prayers,
each line composed mid-consecration
is Marion's sacrifice.

A face smiles at me,
which I recognize,
but cannot place.
His cheeks are young,
but a shock of grey sprouts at his hairline.

Yoga class is now at sunset
(thank you, to the savers of daylight and time).
Sunshine streams into my lungs,
which breath into the heat
of my muscles bending.

I smile.

For I am very happy to be here.

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