the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Calendars Become Cubicles

It felt like summer for a second
And everything was in its right place,
Though relative, but not absolute.
It was as brief as the storm surrounding
And a thief in its loss impending,
Reaching into my pockets of light
Running away in time
So that the subject loses focus.
I always wanted the corner with the window
For the comfort and the perspective,
But now my hands pat empty jackets
As I check the time and play detective.

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