December 1

comments 13

Too warm, but it smells of snow.
Some car sound, as if an owl–

hollow note. The night comes
on like gratitude, always there,

but sometimes staggering
in effect. I get too wan,

too brittle, my tongue
too parched to say just

how I treasure things,
but it would be a mistake

to doubt it–
no, I’m no collector,

but give me the moon
like a pearl on velvet,

some shinning look–
I could write a book

on your eyes alone,
the sluice of friendship,

the sea of love, I am
a boat borne on,

even on nights
like these, stale

and starless, it could
easily be day


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