Saturday, April 4, 2015

Require Dreading

Feeling symbolic, my "I" is entangled in
ephemera, trailing it down the avenue

where the afternoon isn't absolving.
Nervously the wind wonders why

nothing I can see feels necessary.
The sun is obvious as a birth; what

follows me home is sheer malice,
held to be holy. As soon as it goes

I'll examine what's left of me, then
that'll be that: another day relieved

of importance, sent into exile from
all the words I'm afraid to know.

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