the beauty i hear isn’t in
carefully selected words pieced together
in crafted sentences on ideas new and
novel
all that enters my ear is
words in mathematical order in
equations i understand but cannot yet
utilize, and colors more bland than
my own color wheel
i miss days of fascination where
my pen couldn’t keep up with the
ideas being generated by my more
than creative brilliant surroundings.
i miss english.
droplets vein and
track down the
slicked and glistened
glass window.
their quiet silence and
my lover’s voice
wake me – it’s saturday.
morning thunder
rumbles out of place,
audibly unfamiliar – belonging
to a summer afternoon
still to come.
chugging low crashes
soundtrack the small
chores of the early day and
rattle the panes once
in a while.
the gray dawning is
sublime and mortality
hangs in the air
between our two bodies – No,
it flashes with a
glance and shakes us,
each to each’s core.
There are not two
thousand miles between our comings
and our goings,
but it takes two trips
to come and go
completely.
Feet blistered hands raw
from running the walking
stick at probably just four
miles or so. We can’t be too
hasty after all.
Someone lost count after some
of those miles but we
aren’t so long in to the
coming, and as far as things
seem to go, the going
may be rather slow,
so maybe let’s not worry so much
about maps and the like.
Maybe let’s take a moment
or two
to stretch, scratch, and
retie that loose pair of sandals
the sieve and the sand 