Friday, January 16, 2015

WINTER MANNERS

Not until 
once again home—derelict,

naked, sipping and staring-
down another late 

afternoon in his 
usual haunt—an empty kitchen;

does the poet feel the gnawing 
responsibility engulf him—to examine

more precisely 
ideas of the morning—a sun

he'd like 
to have maybe seen—piercing 

through cold clouds—so round
rubicund, and kindly smiling,

always alone,
but never for so much 

as one moment 
apprehended

as being 
lonely—for swollen out

less 
than he—with sacred assam ginger tea

and more, presumably,
by the piquant

heat—of earthly
sympathy.

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