In The Morning Sometimes
The blood curdles under the finger nails,
blessed and letter shaped, as if I am writing you a sonnet, the greatest poem in the world,
with my hands,
with my center,
waving through the air like clouds marching off to some ominous death over the Indian ocean,
only to recover some vitality, some validity later.
Breath,
comes,
goes,
comes again and remains in transition,
an apparition of faith and science congealing into a new paradigm,
a thoughtless thought a careless care,
something for the kids to think about.
Not now, maybe later.
blessed and letter shaped, as if I am writing you a sonnet, the greatest poem in the world,
with my hands,
with my center,
waving through the air like clouds marching off to some ominous death over the Indian ocean,
only to recover some vitality, some validity later.
Breath,
comes,
goes,
comes again and remains in transition,
an apparition of faith and science congealing into a new paradigm,
a thoughtless thought a careless care,
something for the kids to think about.
Not now, maybe later.
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