a sense of absence

March 24, 2013 § 2 Comments

is all
that is
left in your palm
while trying to not miss a moment
feel what it is to be krill
thrashing in
the baleen of the universe

too anxious
to open a locked box
two o’clock unpopulated
afternoon walk
past picket fences
pockets rattle with last nights broken charms
is the yoke fitted to
your specifications
the gift of intuition lifted with
not a twist of difference
the jinn’s influence
takes hold one
whisper at a time

polemic piranhas taking
what they will from your stand
of course
with patience

the numbers lean toward
becoming nothing more
than another cretin at edges of parades elbowing aside
the unsuspecting weak
to catch trinkets thrown from floats
sadly wired to waiting
for your name to be carried on the unified voice of the marchers
never knowing when turn away

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead


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