What Mind of Poetry

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A means of conveyance

Leaves my hand like

A scowl across a suicide note.

Autumn waits to count winter.

The pulp of phenomena ever becoming

Of what, where and how

We know not why –

That is for each of us

To blow up the bulbs

With sweet fecund breaths.

The light twinkling in the firmament.

I am blinking goodbye

To visions leaving my sight

Howling into my fist

On a warm October morning

Birthing a bird with one wing.