Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Something about the morning

A white mantle of fog surrounds the house.

Under these warm morning sheets
the world does not exist.

The mist all around you
makes one place your everything.

You could tell yourself,
on this type of morning
that you'll never have to worry
because nothing else is real.

A body curled in a ball,
a house wrapped in a pall
is all
is all.

you have to be a pilgrim.
You have to go out to the world
you're not convinced is there.

You must be the yarn
that rolls accidentally across the floor,
unfurling from the ball;
unraveling more when someone pulls on the string.

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