Here is that fourth revision of the poem "Origin" that I promised to the moon eons ago. How about that? Didn't think I was that old, did you? Shows you right.
Origin (revision 4)
oh whisper to me of the sidewalks
you used to walk down,
tell me about the red dress on the
clothesline.
I, of course, can't recall too much.
the junkyard, I'd
say, the lack of sleep and the mud.
the ocean.
maybe those things.
maybe heaven,
maybe mirrors
and stars.
maybe we'll live in a home
with glass
laid around our bodies.
we can close the windows;
we can blow smoke
at our love.
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