all this perfect ambiance
wasted on blank nonspiration.
empty and subdued,
i forget how i used to be a writer,
wish i could climb into bed beside you,
let bodies be poetry,
let the mind float away
and leave the work to the skin,
the breath.
ideas fade,
immemorial, immaterial.
it’s all those sinews, smells,
fingerprints that last,
unarguably present.
i forget what i call a vocation,
the feeling of beauty emerging
through forests of adjectives.
i want only flesh, earth,
beauty pulsing and warm.
or cold like the brown bird
lying lifeless on the porch,
my grandest sermon.

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