for Noble tranquility...
I saw a monk make water today and almost cry; water that was almost tea. Tonight we couldn’t make heads nor tails of the blues or the pinks; the boxes or the lenses. Tonight we couldn’t make heads nor tails of the words called poetries. Tonight, the gravity assist came to the heavy-papered water coloured gouache, magnet held. Tonight, the daal was too spicy, the back room too old, the road too wind-y or not winding enough. Tonight, sleep came too soon for me, for her, for the cat on lap; the grey barrier to repairing to bed instead. Today we pulled mint. Today we lifted stones. Today we borrowed swords. Today we ate outdoors. Sleep is coming... for me Sleep is coming... to take and bury the proper end to this poem.
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