Simmering

Simmering

 

a white rag rides on the wind

flip flopping on the urgent breath

that rasps against roofs and eaves

as it complains against closed spaces

 

beneath all this I sit and stew

a quiet thing, compressed

alone in the vessel of my separateness

acquiring a taste for solitude

 

and gaze with growing detachment

at the scrap of white as it waves

with a careless detachment outside

receding into an unknowable distance

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