on writing

I go with what I’ve got,

a fly on my foot,

the sky hung with

intermittent starlight;

a distant hum, near by

like blood pumped; cars,

cicada, city scum; glass

reflects the room I’m in, holds

me near/dear, returns

my frown. I dream

 

of her.
http://bit.ly/2sZBoz8

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