Six Reasons to Spend
Saturday Afternoon with Poetry
Where is the mood?
the other day I lost
relation to rooted stars,
heart not sewn to the close
distance of wide light
grown from shadows. 
Another way out- hallow
a downward dark sky into
the tune of the yard, deep
enough to descend upon
later on night wings sprung
from therianthropic air. 
Spoken joyful melancholy,
gray weather that hampers,
two feet that move along
untowards but as simple
as what’s been found,
melancholic joy of song. 
A world showing clear
abandoned Ash leaf
remain beside gothic
point black street lamp
city crosshatch about
poised pedestals, of it all. 
Il Penseroso indeed,
with thee, too, I behave
into cragged textures so
softened with hard haunts
of old and new, find fire
in the visage of my quarter. 
This is where I can
return, turn, and not
move steadily forward,
time covers that soundly
with spaces hiden between
missteps of new colors.

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