Bute Park

I like it here.

Let’s sit awhile.

The grass, leaves, sky…

Raindrops staining my pages,

My book: Ariel

And Plath.

The eroded redness of my fingernails,

Of my palms.

The orange of my hair and Autumn.

The black of my coat and mood:

Too dark for photographs.

The drops drench my ink,

My poem.

My shoes.

Ah, earthly worries.

The material must win.

The body defeats mind.

The wind picks up, now.

I might be sick tonight.

But leaves blow at me

Like in a fairytale.

The daze demands to stay.

My hands grow cold and

Freeze over.

Some things are worth sickening for.

Alas, I have preoccupations,

Social obligations.

Solitude must wait in the woods.


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