Thursday, October 26, 2017

SWEET TALK

Periodically, I like to stand aghast
at the prodigious depths
of my own

shallowness—
gaping
up at the height

of sky,
which ripples—like a kite
with the wind of all

our
collective longing—
to realize

that it's
much closer by
than I often surmise;

and that
mine
is such a cold sort of compassion.

For the lean fact is—
sharp teeth
just want to bite things,

and nothing they find
can ever be foreign
or bitter;

because there's
only thing
that's really off-putting,

only one thing
that's truly
alien—

and that's
the idea—
of true meaning.

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