It’s easy to remember a feeling that has never departed — indeed, which seems to have been with one since birth. And it’s natural enough to give it a name, and maybe even think of it as a poem. Living is like that, isn’t it? — a hook with a hat on it, a face in the mirror, a place we call home, where clouds become walls, and a soft light is on. Still, through it all, no one really knows. And I think that is why we tremble so.
The moon, behind clouds, and two stars undressing.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces