Where did I find this


When did I live like

there was nothing to do

but sit and wait

for the eagle to land

and the air to come clear

so breathing was possible again?

I remember,

and I don’t know how to stop

it all from getting in the way

of things like this, writing

about the sums of whole

and the wrongs of you.

It is cold again

another Summer come to an end

without knowing who isn’t here where

I am, but they are not long gone

and so I ask:

where is it that you are asking

me to go to?

To fly South?

For there isn’t a reading nor writing book

to be had there and I want it,

to read you like books I

have known without


tough on the head

but easy on the eye

you are.

Chasing timed absences like

I care when you are

not here, which I do

but only through the knowledge of self

and not the knowing of your vehicle

of famed flight.

You left, I stayed

and now the Winter threat is opening the wooden

pages upon myself

to burn for heat, not words

of wisdom.



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