The Season Of It

Some summers I would write
Poetry in the night
Automatically as if possessed
By the house I found myself in.

The old walls and wide floors
Like water to float a body in
Making my thoughts quiet freely
In the silence of it all.

I resent my porousness now
The power of my circumstances
To cause my head to fire or rot
To make good sense or not.

I fear my life draining away
Without the notes I need
To know where I’m going
To see where I’ve been.

A moose in paint looks down on me here
Alternately sorrowful and confused
The conscience of a butler
Brought far from home.

In the parallel universe of myself
Sat on some other couch
I am elsewhere and happy
I envy him and hope he knows.

 

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