old poems, poetry

three.

Many miles, downhill blues.

I have a material home to lay in,

the windows show me shadowed mountains.

Hungry for… I’ve lost it…

I’m going out West for those open spaces

those sweet touchesĀ 

of air, and on and on.

Over and over I loose my concentration

and then I have to start over.

But its nice anyhow…

I feel you from underneath my covers, tucked away there;

its necessary i guess.

Talking is old news, I think we should start humming,

maybe

we would remember then.

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