Sixty something


Sixty something 

Syllables, words, accrete like dust

On an empty plate

Not difficult

In this sultry heat

To summon lazy words

And spread them on the page

Let the letters slip

Over local visions

Large ants busy on hot concrete

And my feet, swollen

Past their best


These moments stall time

Then melt. Go by in a distortion

Of warmth and languor

Because what is the point

When pointlessness is pleasant

And time freezes in the heat

There is luxury in letting go

I am whole. Absorbed in this thought

Just a mass of blood and bone

My thoughts dwelling in the carapace

I am my mind

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