July 17 (in which I try to write and format a poem on a smartphone and it goes predictably badly…)

comments 2
poetry

The late-July breeze, distinctive
in ease, a quiet morning slipping by,
I wake and say I’m here! I’m here! somehow
still a fear of loss, despite the day unfolding
like a lawn chair, predictable, light-weight

.

To have, to hold– a leaf-dappled scene
a girder on the building, perforated
at regular intervals and the word
EMPTY over and over, is it a warning?
or a confirmation

.

There is so much space inside
these days, so little tethering
them in place, you think
an uncontrolled fall from there, 
you think the myriad faces, the counterparts,
negating, rescinding

.

A wisp of clouds here, but thunder
in the pass, maybe a loss
of temporality– a sweet sparrow
call, it’s so peaceful here,
so where am I exactly?

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