Where I Live

Where do I live not in a room
I dirty it with pencil and clean
the tangential mess with paper
and clarity and dopamine
out and away in the city
tongue is tangled without trying
when I am nearly home
I crave being all the way in
the bed-like spirit of the stroll
between greenery and straightness
with vines commenting convolutedly
on perpendicularity. Comfort
kills and renews encroaching
regularity so when the sun
is too high I cut it back
with a scythe like wheat and rye
like invention and adventure
grasslike from river to bounding
low hills of regularity limiting
out-ot-breath ungrammatical cracks
in the walls in the kitchen
where I live on a fuse.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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