Sunday, November 5, 2017

After-Breakfast Back Yard

The clouds want to pick a fight. The light
on the stone taunts me to make of it
what I can. The black peppers glisten
with intent, decline to respond.

I try my hand at meaning,
imagine a discourse, hold what's heard
in the drape of my shadow.
The indifference is not unkind.

It's different with those who, prompted too
by inarticulate force, slop blessings from
bowl to bowl with remorse, for they need
to think of what is not as what is.

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