Walking Past the Graveyard

The night’s not over

outside the temple.


We put on faces,


weaving galaxies

from our

mixed up meditations

to later


untitled pages

from the latest


syllable of

your poetry collection.

The brain is on fire,

he’s musing along

“take my hand

I’m still fond of you.”


I have digressed

from infallible abstractions

as I look outside the window,

ghosting along your heart,

outside the cemetery.


rambling ways.

rambling days.

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