Painted, Pliant, Supple
Painted here again,
in the shadow of a warm evening
in the scent of a thousand flowers,
each one reclining on its back toward me
inviting me to sniff.
Pliant, in the confines of the car,
each hyper-heightened hum of imitation leather
or sputter of stomach
or gurgle of engine
planting me firmly in the supple arms
of nighttime destinations.
This wonderment,
the nostomania
penetrating not only my mind
or this moment
but this place.
Sentimental
Systematic
Solitude.
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