Michael Munas (michaelboy) wrote,
Michael Munas

With a longer breath

I sat on the porch swing around dusk yesterday after finishing all of my chores. I'm always taken by how remarkably different a robin's song is near its bedtime. They seem to prefer to hunt for worms where the lawn has been freshly cut as they repeatedly do their 'hop-hop-stop'. I read somewhere they sense and catch worms more by feel than by sight.

I guess if I closed my eyes, it could have been every summery evening that I've ever known.

* * *

It is simply touch as it rushes breathing
and the fired warmth of blood, coursing.

It knows few answers and holds more
than all the arts of desirous mouths.

In the final falling stretch before sleep
(the edge of alone in reality or memory)
wisps of reverie touching, pooled so deep.
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