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6:18 p.m. - 2020-03-03
The thin branches of the cottonwood
denuded by winter
stretch like a cobweb
unoccupied by the hungry leaves
which would catch the light if it had not fled.

The roads are spiraled in
pulling the light along their winding
Ensnaring the occasional happy family
But mostly Pueblo’s lots are empty
Steel is not enough by itself to make a home

Your hands are outstretched
A lattice of friendship
Obscuring the cancers on your knuckles
the past which my wary eyes cannot ignore,
but also cannot fathom in the brief moment
Before I clasp your hand


I can't check to see if I had one named thus already. It seems like I should because I am not that creative. I live in Pueblo now. I do the same thing that I used to. I am still married, and I have rented a house that needs desperately to be owned by someone who will care for it. I won't. Sorry.

I write now and again. Never much. And now the basic navigation has broken down somehow. I will research this, and see if I can restore some function to the whole thing. After all, it is the readers who will save me. If I could be enjoined to post at all. I miss people who liked this stuff.

I have a boss who is almost exactly like touching a live wire. The energy that flows through him makes it impossible to move. He has plans and ambitions about everything. He's so far immune to disappointment in me, which seems selective. But the erosion has begun. He wants me out of my shell. As ever, they believe I carry depths which conceal treasure. Maybe they are right. Just because everyone else is corroded by it doesn't mean they will be.



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