Don’t mistake my gearing up
for giving up—there’s a difference.
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Don’t mistake my gearing up
for giving up—there’s a difference.
Tree lined
suburban, shadowed
street signs
stand aloof
in the quiet morning
daylight gloom
of happy homes
opened doors
and kisses. Questions
fall like flower petals
on sidewalks, cracked
by ancient roots
whose planted hands
can only tell
the difference between
early mornings
and daylights answers.
But the sky is new,
and the desert
Golden, only as old
as the moon which hangs
still as the sun
does rise over broken
glass bottles, which dress
Winnetka, asphalt
like a torn evening gown
come morning.
It’s a shame
how much more
I need all of them
the one’s I have loved
when I break they bend
made not of wood
or stone just amends
a man on his knees
who now understands
the difference between
women and men
is the woe that binds
two hearts like a thread.
I climbed the Mountain and broke my ankle on the Molehill.
I no longer see the difference between,
watching my step like a raccoon in the night.