My AIM
depends on the time of day and
the direction I am facing.
. . . to pierce your heart
with a sense of sorrow thick enough
to choke on, like a cloud.
To move through you,
an autumn breeze;
a cold front moving in from the River.
To disregard you -(let's be honest here)-
and come back to myself.
To feel what it's like to
walk into a building
with a sense of purpose.
To know where I am going.
To expand around the edges
just a little further- (actually,
much, much further.)
To write a poem,
To sing a song,
To learn SOMETHING NEW every day.
My aim is to sit on park benches
like they do in better poems;
just myself, alone,
faced with the warm airiness of the unknown.
1 comment:
Oh, how I wish you would -- AIM your body, or your car to the nearest park bench. Take a copy of this that you wrote. Sit on that bench, yourself, alone - and read MY AIM out loud "like they do in better poems". Because it IS just that.
Post a Comment