Don’t talk to me
about the weather.
With the foreground
growing denser,
with my eyelashes
growing thicker,
it could be poorly timed.
The tree climbed
once too often
soon sinks back
into its roots.
My blood shoots
lazily through vein.
Some day,
a plainer picture
of our routine
will supplant this ornate one
running amok
with its boring flourishes.
Entertaining though it may be,
this thought
barely weighs a thing.

-r. miller

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