2/20/17

Standard

I’ve given almost no consideration.
Yet as my dissertation on the absolute
is muddied in the waters of semantics,
I can understand my breath undoing itself.
Pretty angst is this day’s flavor.
I savor what the sabers offer.
Before the blight of day breaks
its bottle over the heads
of the orphaned street corners,
I should put a thought in somewhere,
as a token of good faith.
I deal with these wraiths on the reg, you see,
I peg them to the floor
when the boredom suits me,
and if they get too frisky,
I go on shrugging.

-r. miller

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