~for weeping willow~
one would think
gray haired poets,
slip side on a continuous continuum
between cup runneth over
and the
zeroing dark thirty
of disturbances to
the link to the ether~reral zone
when that happens,
i surrender to it,
when it comes attached to the night-
mares, that leave me in the untenable places,
riding] me, helpless, to:
answer ringing phones that cant be found & healed,
tests in school i did not study for,
all the closed fists, that went unstruck
that were dead, at first glance,
despite my forgiving them their errancy of misleadings,
and the loop is endless,
but this is not a poem about them
this for Willow,
and her "about nothing"^
and so I, her obedient servant,
fan, admirer, in the wings,
consider my state of mind exhausted mind,
invoke my right, and my left too,
to 'fess that even nothing,
has it moment,
a savoir faire. all its own,
si compose,
in order not to stare at the outer edges of the nor'easter
raining on my boos as we type,
resting deeply, three times, in 'n out,
hand upon chest centrale,
the deepest breathing this man can perform,
to push the malodorous down the s(t)ink
and acknowledge and accelerate
the old notion,
that even a bad something,
is greater than
about nothing
again