091213A
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It is always more difficult
being alone,
when it comes to winter.
A season of cold flesh,
and barren death,
when trees stand skeletal
among remains of harvest.
This year someone came,
punctuating
the change of seasons
the way emphasis is given
by an exclamation,
making these barren times
feel more desolate.
Life can be most cruel,
even if cruelty is unintended,
the way a foot slides
across a glaze of thin ice
that meant to do no wrong,
causing various injuries
that never really heal.
We carry the effects with us,
as long as we can carry anything,
and then linger there a while,
gazing on that burden.
It could have been different,
but there were all those conflicts
of intentions and desires.
I have not met anyone in years,
but sometimes there is punctuation
to the run on sentences,
as pertain to the more usual.
Punctuation stabs at consciousness,
making a kind of gap there,
where something can slip in.
The sort of thing that reminds one,
of all those usual evasions
of loneliness and insufficiencies,
making the emptiness empty again,
and the cold colder than it was.
Something similar to coming home
after having to bury someone.
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091213B
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One tries to make good use
of whatever one has chanced to get.
The same is true of loss,
even if the loss is purely imaginary,
the way it is when one loves
without really knowing enough.
When we are particularly poor,
as a way of having something
that one can make something more of.
Winning not really being an option,
and far beyond realistic expectations.
The illusions of what is imagined
about any terminated affair of heart,
providing far more substance,
than a typical routine existence
ever chances to afford.
The greater tragedy thus overwhelmed
by the lesser disaster.
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091213C
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I do not want to step out,
into that routine world
of routine losses,
nothing being gathered in
to any feeling of warmth
or safety.
Having seen it all washed away,
the way persistent erosion
washes it all away,
I want to hug the shoreline,
as if it is as passing a thing
as I or you are passing things.
Everything shuttered and locked,
giving that sense of abandonment,
when everyone has gone,
and only ghosts play their tricks
on the gullible senses,
where a carnival of dreams
once boasted dazzling possibilities.
It might have been much worse,
if we had chanced to become lovers,
the way color intrudes
into any sort of monochrome.
It is always more difficult to turn back
when one has gone too far forward,
only to stand on that loneliest ground.
There is always another flaw,
that causes one to wake up
before knowing the whole story.
Lovers are typically only sleepwalkers
afraid of being awakened,
because that might be the last line
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091213D
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Certain I have got it wrong,
no matter which way I turn it.
Some things have no right side,
and no proper up side,
to their down side.
Words bleed freely,
from my paralyzed fingers,
unable to say anything much
about so many
becoming forbidden subjects.
A tongue that has forgotten
what to utter,
making hideous sounds,
as it gathers stray syllables,
herding them across the lips.
A concatenation of sounds,
that offer layers for analysis,
peeling away what was meant,
right down to the brutal core
of sex and death.
Strange how it sometimes is
when something seems to matter,
only to find
that it does not matter at all
to anyone else.
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