Accepting the origins of far away…

Emotions rarely have an odor, a color
but almost always taste like butter –
something all wrong by itself
[Where are the stringbeans?
Where is the bread ?]

Feelings seem to mean
something – but it’s all
so decidely predicated –
like that long monotone
in the phone
after the other party
has hung up.

And poetry?
Well sometimes
if you read it more than once
it begins to make perfect sense.

.
.

 

 

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