Tuesday, January 4, 2011

225. Things You Realize before It’s Too Late

With the sun at your back,
your shadow precedes you.

The hole in the guitar
doesn’t hold in sound.

The crack in a neck
at the point of a hug.

Names painted onto
the walls beside you.

A foot too cold,
or foot too hot.

With the snow at your feet,
you sink forward and walk.

A film redeemed
by the way it ends.

No person enough
to be the world.

Temporary,
temperate.

Number of dogs in a dog park
equals or exceeds the humans.

A couple is al-
most a couplet.

We keep going
until we stop.

Your breath rises,
your head falls to.

Your voice’s visible
only in the winter.

New Jersey
is still new.

Thumbs
as drums.

No miracle but
a street’s there.

When wind blows at your
walking your face is clear.

Balance
is an act.

Never too late
to stay under.

Night’s poem’s
a letter to you.

Only a few opportunities
to exchange a few words.

A fall is
a reason.

T’enter’s
to leave.

There’s a
hook in it.

When you are out of words,
you replace them with words.

Audience
as aura.

Record
of it, A.

What we save,
what we have.

A time for sleep,
a need for tide.

Good
night

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