and Trey, who nearly snagged a fresh-dead bird.
The sun burned off some brain fog, thoughts began
to breach, and then submerged without a word.
Unshowered, stubble-chinned, I had a bad
night’s sleep: Trey licking, barking in his dreams.
Or maybe it was me, poor poet sad
enough to nurse his ironies and memes.
And now black coffee’s coursing through my wan
and tepid blood, spring-gleam in glacial shade.
Yet ennui clings like moss, chill hanging on.
Not hard to see how few good things get made.
How long this search for beauty, truth, gods’ signs?
Ad infinitum? No, just fourteen lines.
***
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