.
When you’re sitting alone like
a poor little elf
it seems everything falls off
the shelf of yourself.
But falls isn’t the verb. What
you’ll have viewed
by the end of it will have
arrived in a curlicued
.
rush: disguised as elaborate
ribbons and spatters
of colorful paint-drops, they really
are matters
of dry circumspect little
naggings of thought
that seek form in this way to
allay any fraught
.
misconception you’ll sometimes
have had
that there’s nothing of import inside
you: a sad
probing finger that often will
poke at the bruise
in your heart – that you’re
feet without shoes,
.
incomplete, like the news you’ve
been promised
but never receive. Mental
weather’s admonished
you often before that you’ve
got something going.
But what? All this folderol flowing
and showing
.
itself all the time! To what
end? You’ll sit alone
for a small while more. Wait for
your iPhone
to ring-aling-ding. That would be
reason for cheer.
But wait, there’s no wait. Everything’s
already here.
.
.
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