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Tuesday, October 20, 2015


a rush . . .
as if all that was tall straight and stable
were now bending.

no twinkling
a sleepy amazement
about all that men built

from the window of a late cab
speeding home
I no longer care enough
of what will or can or might happen.

the tide of events
spins irreverent, a sacrilege
toward a private ending.
my own?
how lonely that would seem.
my children are my children,
the die is cast
they need me fully or not at all
at times my wife is a person I cannot talk to

Before her I was unfocused
I had principles but I was naive
loving strangers, eyes to the heavens.
now I focus on the earth ahead.

Yet know I lie buried somewhere
aching gnawing to find purpose the source of drive
what is it?
it wakes each cursed day
setting me on a journey
through a disconnected world
waiting for a story to tell.

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