I cannot make you see what
isn't really there--
Making a spectacle of myself
in front of the wilting lettuce,
the red-felt bowl of shriveled ginger and
decimated garlic,
I collect myself in the untraveled
spaces behind opened doors,
along the distance of the floor,
beneath the walls and
joined with the quietly breathing dust
mites and wispy balls of hair set
into the corners of our conversations
by the daily unsung motions
of living things-
the blood clot lints spun from small
cotton rugs,
the dropped stains of coffee
rings and dried consumed concoctions,
scurfs of habitual living
and the dross marked paths between them,
pushed by brooms and
people that move them.
It is there I fly
down along the disasters
ground of our discourses,
gathered by the wakes from greater things
trapped on the way to the dustbin.
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Hey,
I don't know how this will appear, but I'm hoping it's something I can' use to talk to you before you post a comment. I realize it can be a bit of a turn off to have your comments submitted for moderation and not posted immediately. I post every comment I get, I just want to know that I've gotten one. So I'm not as controlling as it may seem. So tell me what you think! Thank you.