When again

I forget all that I thought

lost to reason like a flight of birds

and cornered in my fancy of this word or that.


I think my posture has written a few

when I’m slunk like a folded pillow

into the creases of my seat, a lonely

heartbeat and a keyboard.


Strike a match in front of my eyes

so that I can see a trembling beauty

and sort through the raptures of

aural symphony available to me.


But hark another sirens call, so much

to see and get lost in antiquity. And books

with their subtle sights and leering looks

I can do without those too.


I thought I had found my best again

like a child I wondered why I was able

to write this poem at last after all that

sinks earthward bound like snow.


Perhaps I will never really know

what makes things move and go

upwards like a bird or float gently

down to earth like snow.


Does it matter to the mad hatter

how his garden grows? As long


there is someone to pour, and talk to

who could want for more?


Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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