Penniless
words as lanterns
looking for one honest ear.
the product of grief-weakened manners.
incensed quests.
just one sentence could take months,
only to get thieved by a cave swallow
nesting its ribbons of song under an overpass.
at best,
a murmurous, mellifluous sitar of touch
nestled against a nape.
but!
--to sail on skis of contrails,
above birds-of-paradise that nod to kiss in breeze,
if that might be what it takes
for drunks to look up from the jail cell of their
drinks--
that all means nothing.
and yet the soul scrabbles after such unchained
moments,
such unsullied joys,
such unbothered togethery-nesses,
so high above the truth of the fall.
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