Friday, October 29


Your simple life, its
subtle hues—
They are falling all around me.
It is floating like a haze,
like a drifter,
a champaign bottle's popped cork
from yesterday's celebration;
it's reclining, lengthwise, in some expanse—
it could be called the sea.
It will not be.
I will call it something else.
I will write its name on the stars,
or maybe
just on the face of my heart.


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