Friday, May 6, 2016

PURITANICAL

You have begun
to see—
not everything 

that shines
reflects the light 
of purpose, 

nor is everything 
your outreached fingers encounter 
necessarily there 

for you 
to use.

The moon—for instance, 
looks delicious
down here,

like the plump fruit
of heaven's 

infinity tree—ripe
and rolled 

out into plain view 
only for you; 

when it's just
miles 

and miles 
of unconstructive gray dust—
no lavender mountains

no sweet cream 
butter, no old jazz,
no breathable atmosphere. 

And yet, still
you cannot keep

from wondering—if all 
of the pain

from way
back then

might somehow, 
someday
return—and

apologize to
you.

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