dead leaves on the ground, the dying
cling to tired branches
both waiting for that cold north wind
that will push us
elsewhere -- and where
is my rucksack?
Category Archives: the no-scape
first pipe, second cup
worn away
this is all
tired leather
a patched sweater
a morning
we missed the sunrise
a night sky
erased by city lights
an old dog that can’t quite
bring himself
to shit
and die
the body insists
itself on the soul
there is fire yet
and the coffee
is done
whittled down Whitman for the metamodern age
return to the procreant urge
crisp morning outside
cold coffee in the cup
tobacco ash on the keyboard
again, begin again