You are the fountain of the sun’s light.
I am a willow shadow on the ground.
You make my raggedness silky.
The soul at dawn is like the darkened water
that slowly begins to say “Thank you, thank you.”
Then at sunset, again, Venus gradually
changes into the moon and then the whole nightsky.
This comes of smiling back
at your smile.
The chess master says nothing,
other than moving the silent chess piece.
That I am part of the ploys
of this game makes me
Lovely Lauren. Here’s a dittyromp in return:
You have two legs
a credit card
and a hardware store down the street.
A wheelbarrow waits for you there.
Fill it with your books,
ideas of what will be
and every last bit piece of
pretence you call
Push the barrow up that steep turnpike,
up, up again and around and up
and dump it over the cliff.
Throw over likewise
any maps you snuck into your pockets.
Chuck your clothes while you’re at it.
They can only hamper.
There is no model for you.
None at all.
You wrote this, Thomas? I love it.
That came from the netherworld somewhere inside me, Lauren, the place where feelings reside, so thank you. I love the feeling life.