Friday, July 11, 2014


Being alone in any room
is a privilege.
To become alone
is to be alive.
One unit. A masterpiece.
The accumulation of thought and emotion,
a slow movie-like appearance
of faces beneath the mind's eye.
A recorded memory
of the look of the crimson sun on that very beach.
The reality of the exact moment
when the right ankle crosses over the left foot.
The comfort of holding a book
until it proves impossible
to recognize meaning any more.
Only the blurred ends of sentences.
Marsh-mellow mountains melt meekly
over fields of gold.
The nakedness of the many trees and
the fragile limbs of decades are gone.

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