Thursday, December 10, 2020


You've learned—if not reason, 
at the very least, rhyme 
is required. But it's no use; you 
can't make either work. 

Your lines are not catchy,
nor are they terribly 
instructive. But it feels 
when you speak the words—

a jumble of phrases 
about the glow behind trees...
and the mentality of morning...
and wishing you were younger—

all of which seem to glide 
like an iridescent fish 
in the deep and soundless 
trenches of your mind—

that a third thing is happening. 
A third kind of mattering. 
That perhaps feeling, at its purest, 
neither entertains nor teaches.