until the boozy late night sun sweeps you up in giddiness.
until you forget which foot is which
and which comes after the other.
until a strut turns to a whirling of hops and skips
of stops and stares, of grins and blinks.
while your ear is to a tree, rainforest takes root
and it’s as if around any corner will be some ghostly entity
waiting with unwarranted riddles of morality.
but all that waits is solitude
and after that, deeper solitude.
and at some point
after losing yourself to the rhythm of the hills
to the patterns of birdsong and to the liquidation of sunlight.
after losing your footing and your place in the world
it seems arbitrary to play with words in the mind.
like a child casting a spindley net around the most monstrous,
glorious, tesselating abstractions.
and still, somehow, you return to the point at which you began
a string of words in tow.
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Posted Sep 18, 2023
This poem gives insight into my relationship with writing as an art form. It demonstrates my passion for using language to explore the nuances of experience.