New year, new terror –
or is it dullness? As years pass,
they’re one and the same. Little hands
reaching up to be held, staving off
the question in the middle of things:
What for? There’s not enough time
to attend to interiors, thank God! –
or whatever abstract plane I shove
the metaphysical into. I want bigger thoughts,
but still, your fingers are dragging me down,
back to basic realms, desires still echoing
through months and new rains. So much changed,
and I want you and don’t, and to be seen by you,
or for my particular dullness to thrill you,
which is another name for beloved.
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