itches (in the eye) of the storm

The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four

and isn’t it good

rise and fall
as you like

you like

when you must

how easy
to see a whole life

stretching out
that way

languid comfort

not much held
not much

such false comfort

but a breath
easily taken
in the eye
of a storm
is a breath
no less
for the buffeting before

the buffeting after

breathe deep
before the other need

and scratches

and you


I’m persevering with my Wasteland project, though without much sense of to what end. This is poem #123 of a likely #306.

The project has taken me to places I had no intention of visiting.

Such is the muse.

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