are your moons too dark? should we lighten to gray? does enough of the wood grain show through?

i shouldn’t
drink coffee. my mind
already chattering and
fidgeting, yet here
i wooden-table sit,
drinking coffee.

days stretch and
shudder; meaning
is elusive, love
seems only
conceptual.

i learn
to translate
tiny starbursts of
fleeting feeling
into what are
perhaps
subatomic particles
of joy.

it is dark
here at this
latitude. it is
barren here in this
brain. sometimes
a field goes
fallow. dormant,
as it quietly quilts
to fecundity.

rain
is at your doorstep,
seated still
with a companionable cat.

it has been
with you, cat.
rain. a
door to step
through. for all of
your falling
years. a man
in error gives
you too much
money, asks
for blood in return.
you have neither.
today, fallow.
today, fecund.
today, enough
to give.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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