A poet sent me all his poems today to pore.
Two of my friends speak like handmowers in tight corners: two words forward one word back. “I guess you’ll… you’ll just have to do what he says”.
Some songs have pursued me like purgatory hounds or some kind of drug addiction. Some I’ve hunted for years, catching last verses on AM radio. I have a list I could list, but what’s the point?
Doves say
Through the streets and on your own
Almost lost and almost home
We’ll be looking all we can
We’ll be searching for the sulphur man
I can’t sleep.
I am losing endless games of spider solitaire.
I’ve a smile on my dial.
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