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Oct 2019
Often
Wondering
This fickle bit
Of picked wind hit
Tossing my hair
In blur

seemingly
continuous
and
never begun
burns my hand
and my tongue

my feet
like air
murmur past
flatiron towns
of nothing and everything
the obscurity of it all
does not keep me up
unless intentionally

and temporary towns
for momentary bounds
bonds
beds for my heads
that linger
in sound
irritated as their best state
and suspension as their worst

And so I ponder
Longer
And still longer
When
ilo
Written by
ilo  19
(19)   
  133
     Jim Musics, Cné, Bogdan Dragos and ---
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