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242 Geese

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I am, somewhat surprisingly (to me, anyway) beginning a series of poetry-written-when-I-hear-the-geese-throughout-my-day.

I’m awake.

It’s 2:42 on 
Spring morning. 
Feeling like evening,
more like night. 

The moon’s fallen,
I’ve been summoned,
from deep.  

The cat is animated. 
The sky is over-clouded
and I embark on a 
soot-study; seeking stars
or forms or somethings. 

It impenetrably 
denies my every query.
It stoically silences
any furtive echo of

I long for 
the not yet,
the far off,
the hoped for. 

A gooseless sky 
black-blankets me. 

Please, Sleep take me. 
The wake hates me.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2018

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