It’s dark,
but here
being neighbor to the park,
though with a roof
to keep heat in,
warm my body,
and protect my head,

I sense the point-like
beams of stars. . .
it feels post-equinoctical,

though to you
it seems not logical. . .

and the perception
runs quite deeper
than the breezed-kiss hairs
that skim skin curves–

and even deeper
than the brain-joined
from two mirrors
of my soul
that tech-xperts
would call optical.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry, Seasons, Spring and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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