Grist for the grist mill,
cheese for the cow
and everyone gets just
a little bit older and wiser
but not me, not that kink
thrown to the gear not the
shoe caught up in itself not the
fragrant embolism. Give
me the fruit and the freedom, these
little wonders keeping me on
the up and up. And maybe a hair
to pluck or a lip to kiss or a
squadron to command. But
these are not necessities,
only tokens of bittersweet hubris.
so good!
i like the words who spend the time in the strange true.
Good bye