The improbability of you, Shooting star, Birthed in the caldera Of a winged widget Ejecting celestial dust, Now your dance floor Is the Universe. And you dance and dance to the delight of your seasons, Inspiring your myriad friends.
The hidden is more than the seen The seen is more than the observed The observed is more than the understood Is it not for poetry to truss 'n bridge The wattle until better beavers Make a channeled floody duddy of it?
December, the whole year, actually, has whittled my world
d o w n
to a lap cat older than me in fur years, and this misnomered, smartphone, from which I strain to shave marrow from stolen bones in the manner of a single tooth wolf.
the steel on steel clank of a canal lock gating is a lonely sound to hear, and so too your parting words, though wise, gentle and reassuring, it is our channel that's closing and I do whelm - what feels like tears.