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Thrilled, wrapt, beguiled,
bruised, broken, lost,
tempest toss’d
or star-sky smitten,
it’s your heart we love alone

even if it feels so,
you never are x
The hedgerow pulse
seems quickened as the dipped flit
of three blue **** from here to there
declares that something is coming

Maybe too early to call spring,
the jackdaw on a slack wire
is still willing to give energy to balance,
as his eye sees good things

And the fettered earth begins to flex
as something elliptical
solar
inherent
returns to tickle us
Sometimes, tides behind teeth get stuck
as if the moon, distracted,
looses its inexorable pull

then all the weight of water
sits stagnant
while each pescatarian thought
from the zipping, inconsequential minnow
to the ponderous whale bulk
sulks, sick and stuck

If you see these green gills,
or the overspill in the eyes of those
you know
maybe sit awhile, harbour side
and cast a line or two
In this view, I know the name
of that village on the hill
but I forget the next and the next

Most of these birds, this song,
were here before
but the heft and pin-black eye
of the red kite are new,
not known

And though the sharp-scrape panic
as the pheasant protests
has sounded a thousand times past,
these days it’s heard different
...
Dear Mr. P - [stop] -
...
I was your knife in the water, a credit card kept exclusively for killing - [stop] -
I was a gingersnap on your sugar train, a flower-filled glory box to swallow your whole wide world - [stop] -
I was night, night of the electric insects, praying mantis and ladybug — nervous animals, lotus eaters, enjoying a ceremonial after meal
- [stop] -
I was slivers of pseudoscience poisoned by man-made seasons — a new and beautiful and interesting disease - [stop] -
You and me, we are now the same — snapshots in sheared time, before the closedown of our impossibly ****** impulses - [stop] -
...
Best wishes, V
···
A drop of rain in the summertime
when the climate is hot
makes a blackbird sing
and petals of the flower open
for which my wifi isn't necessary
I’m stuck between a letter and a word
pushing towards the end of a line
in many a meaning, I’ve shamefully erred  
to make sense of a sentence and a rhyme
all this effort consumes me
It bleeds my heart to think
my soul is weighing heavy
till poetry pours out of me like ink
many a thought often slay me
I rewrite to find release
I’m lost, till you find me
crying out, “read me…please”
Poets are fools for pain
I would write more
but you scare me
I'm not as
[something]
as you
I just don't
know for sure
what
Not as rhythmic
mebbe
I don't even
Not as run up
on something
as you
Not as in
denial
Not as
Knotted
Just not
absent here
as you
leaning back
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