Love of the world is so clearly come and go,
the way we talk sounds beautiful and sad.
You have to try these three words before you can
say the harder thing.
The air at evening crumbles into rose flakes.
The wind like a child’s breath.
This is cement. It’s almost hard now, but when it’s new, it’s soft.
If we step in it then it’ll be there forever.
To describe is to praise, I’ve always felt that.
Two crows fly up and disappear into the depths of the redwood.
Talking with Sarah in bed I touch her hair.
How often do we use the word “safe” each day? Thanks,
a walk sounds nice. When I write this
winter I trace lines of motion I conclude
I’ve lived. My mentor tells me I am
more than a series of inclinations,
twilight knotted with dislikes.
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