It’s been a long time. But finally we have another collaborative poem out.
Long time, no chat. No see, no touch, no kiss, no nothing, and nothing but feel.
At least he still had that, he thought just now, though in the pitch of darkness
He’d rather the feelings were not exempt from the sullen landscape of negation.
(Almost scribbled “barren” there, but who ever knows what goes on underfoot.)
With skin, barely healed, itching, eczema hidden, he sits in restlessness of wait.
The path to his mailbox is overgrown. Overhead a sky, unpainted, a canvas
for sooty brushstrokes, for striations yet uncarved. Imaginations darkly seen.
He grips his fountain pen, handmade paper stretched, in possibilities, unsoiled.
The sky starts darkening, as he sits in his fugue; dusk birds twittering.
A log on the fire creaks, drops and sighs, warning: I’ll be dead soon.
A moth brushes his face, a crepuscular…
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