So much beauty in dirt

It’s ok that I am going out like a candle.  Clean metaphors like pressed clothes, all of them fine makes addressed, a permanently raised glass, love, on a ship perhaps, the world waving, or the best of them.  It is not ok that it is the world that’s leaving me.

I hand my teeth down, no one takes them, there are no college kids left to believe in strangers anymore, take up their flags, ensorcelled by seeming context & strange nocturnal tuitions paid in dissent, rapture and yes, amelioration.

This place has stayed neat with me in it.  I have protected things… things of which you can have no idea, things whose ideas will not come again, their valkyries fled, a diaspora of gods, kings and vassals, the whole parade of these my insignificant things.  They were my wine, my rope to hang myself with.

I will not imagine you.  I was imagined.  I will not simper, the shakiest hand in the riot, I will not ease meekly, subdued to wait a time for meaning, for museum glass, nitrogen filled air, greater value indeed, greater than needed.  You will pass me like so much meaning in dirt.


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