EVERY DAY ABOVE GROUND
May 13, 1985
Word expresses mind like grape into wine.
I wash my voice with wine
in the cool shade upon a russet carpet beside a staff of sunlight with wings of sunshine lit by the finely particulate dust in the air that alight on my brown wooden chair coiling in mockery of the living vine.
A Forever Afternoon,
yours and mine,
alone in freedom, unwatched,
searching for my voice
to speak the word.
What is this symphony of imagery?
Where in the DNA?
………..Where was I? Oh, yes, today…
…this is the truth.
It starts from below my belly button, enfoliates,
blossoming in my finger tips, synapsing over these keys
from think to ink.
I love the creamy middle
But too much it resembles middle age, pasty, soft
with a hard crust.
I must not do something.
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