Fim the Fool Man Failure, or; the words are assembled in different patterns and then employed without pay

the clouds have returned
to southeast Alaska,
much like whales,
humpback and gray,
who have also returned
to our surrounding
bays and channels,
our inlets and ocean’s
wide open yawn.
but we had a week
of clear skies prior
to their yesterday-evening
homecoming, and so
yesterday afternoon
i was pale but singing
from the sun,
as i worked scraping old
paint off an even older
wooden trolling boat,
and then cooled by a
nimbus embrace
as evening toddled in.

and so i was unable to see
last night’s moon,
swaddled in cloak and cloud,
but i did soak up all that
reflected and altered
lunar energy
for many nights prior.

after a year of no
exercise other than manual
labor and flying fingers
on the fretboard of my mind,
i am attempting
to move my body in
a more regular way;
right now my ass is sore
as i sit at the wooden table
of morning, remnants
of my return to bicycling.

bicycling, reminding
me that even in our
perceptions of stillness,
still we spin.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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