isn’t it all just words
empty phrases, open windows
stale dust on gummy floors
of former cattleman’s bars
sites closed by tut-tutting
societals
swinging sharpened conformist
axes
a breeze blowing by a dust devil
seems also to so-what the word-spin
that thinks it wants to be wound
quite aside from the physical
thrill
the showy peacock feathers
of the mandatory mating ritual
and also the old men on the
square
appreciating a good yarn
unspinning
repeated exact with asides and
pauses
glints of recognition to tribal
knowledge
the women of the village on the bankside
washing the hands that wove the
cloth
that just seems to some the roll
of a river
or the wobble of a flophouse cot
it could be the detection of phantom
thoughts
or long held truths, beauty in a
wince
wine from a bottle pouring ever
fragrant
into a summer crystal shoe to
share again
or just the sleepy tenant song of
a dream
hazed around beams of golden
light
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