Thursday, September 11, 2008


a writing exercise.
a written exercise.
or something that might be taken along.
and later remembered. in the years. to come.

a familiar face.
or a gesture.
something that makes sense.
or feels like something else once did.

autumn begins.
and everything becomes relative.
relatively complicated.
a truth in memory.
a decade.

and he remembers the sound 
of pen to paper.
a shy girl. a young girl.
he remembers the "irony" in my written work.
or storytelling.
stories told long ago.

and everyday of the week.
i wake up early.
because sleep doesn't come easy in the autumn.

and i am fierce with love.
the book store makes me weak in the knees.
i fall to the ground.
and try to absorb knowledge.

my mind is a corn field.

and i have a deal with detail.
every line eventually bleeds into the next.
but still i notice.

sometimes we rest on the surface.
but home is deep underneath.

and perhaps someday we could sit
with a bottle of wine 
and have a full fledge conversation
about meaning.

or start with
something to talk about.

like 365 days ago..

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