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I have seen the summer landscapes
of so many stomping grounds
curl up and wither in the wind
which blows in cold and careless
the bellow of an entropic elsewhere
coming to starve the land of its heat  
trees and leaves lay down
to die or sleep and dream
of rebirth, even if the difference
    between death and this rugged sleep
    is an empty argument, a hollow assurance
    the hungry forced to feed on hunger
    for what good is the promise of flowers to them?
I think of these lines and things
watching out the window in some jejune afternoon
finding it easier than in other times
to curl up with the wilting things of this world
wait for the bathing glow of the sun
and find its warmth again
    and yet
            every day
the multifoliate apertures of my heart
raise themselves as exalting hands
skyward like thirsty parasols
to drink in the loving warmth of you
a radiating star that knows no winter
for with you I make no bed with misery
I wrote once of you that I wished
I could run grooves into the walls
run the needle in my heart over them
and relive the revery of our beginning
but loving you is the happy wisdom of a
kinder god than Lot’s wife knew
for I do not turn away from decay or better days
nor lay with the unmoving saline pillars
I am reminded of the forward march of our lives together
and the fulsome promises of sugar-song-sun to come

14 Feb 19

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