11/7/09
The earth mumbles and the leaves stretch
toward that to which all compass points align.
The nimbus does not dare watch
the places they have been before,
on their pathways, thin bridges of vapor.
Wraiths uninhibited to forge connections,
we are urged to follow their indices of ethereal magnetism.
Spinning out of control,
I am but mad North-by-Northwest.
Woke up feeling waterlogged,
Saturation pushed to the surface,
To blur the distinction between love and loss.
The spots have long since marred my silent maps,
landmarks dulled by November's dross:
floating scripts of indulgence.
Pure absence is nothing at its fullest,
the delicate bellwether finally top-to-toe:
a storm in a bottle.
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