Monday, April 17, 2017

Monday Poem

A man kept relocating
His ghosts, as if hiding them
By frequent reburial,
The way scrub jays recache treats,
Could save them for the future
He would likely never be.
His world was filled with middens,

Small messy pockets of thoughts,
Phrasings, stolen quotations,
Shed fur, and twigs. Dig through them
And the ghosts, as they appear,
Escape and evaporate.
One is sighing now from this
Pit where he tried trapping it.

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