Do Little

A spider is making it’s way,
Across the speckled white ceiling toward the Orchid,
That probably doesn’t get enough light to bloom.
Or perhaps away from the stinkbug on the windowsill.
So much life in the quiet evening room!
How could I ever be lonely,
Learning to talk with You?

 
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Now read this

WHAT I THINK OF WHEN I THINK OF YOU

I think of writing you a poem That feels like a letter. I would jot it down, carefully, in longhand On the back of the latest Cohen tome In explanation of my more recent plagiarisms. I imagine I would tell you my recent revelation. That... Continue →