with time i myself distill
through the filter of now, yesterday,
and every sacred moment
in which bodies did blend.
the observer is the last to see
how accumulation breeds the banal;
days become just days.
tiny narratives shared over dinner
so boring
our tiny north american rituals
not enough, i know.
my head too steeped in stars
and could not see
could not but feel
the accumulation of lifeblood
in an otherwise useless heart
since revived, sweetly tested,
found wanting
the accumulation lacked substance
he said, or seems to say
or meant, were he a poet
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