#817 - we don't know what we're fucking with

 

31.iii.22

817

3.90

we don’t know what we’re fucking with

 

how superstitious seem

to all our later selves

 

breathless

who understands?

we toy and spoil

 

especially the weather

 

some will say I sniffed you out

call them acts of

and natural causes

 

take out a policy

 

cast just a shadow past

 

time – the gallows

a tree run up

 

the soul some say

and parts go over the moon

 

we have doldrums

sometimes skip a beat

and might be just to see you

 

call bolts from the blue

pretend they are mine

 

clever clever

invent the piano the violin

 

when we play with ourselves

we don’t

 

everything is inside out

how else

 

the simple clearing of the throat

as if one might pronounce

 

to know is not

 

there are no words

heart compasses

 

we weave the very air away

 

live forever in a poem

nudge wink

 

and will you won’t you?

 

steer selves into the storm

 

who else is there (?)

one has to ask

 

will you still find me here?