off the world. Returns me to options
I think will be the same. A
feeling of uselessness
when I chuck memories into the
future. That I am chocolate in the sun
of some bright arrangement, made thick
in someone’s heated mind,
her possibilities.
I don’t learn from my own poems.
To take the plum in one hand
and with the other wave myself
thru, forgetting the
orchards, that dazzling
in the warm light.
An old friend knows
enough to get off the
train when it can’t make
the next stop.
- Ross Feld
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