Ne Plus Ultra

Perfection with a spot on it
springtime with a May frost
dawn as still as it was last night
in bed lost in love’s shell
like egg yolk and egg white.

All the way to outer space
looking through my blinds pink
swollen to my waking sight
without blinking concentrating on
premonitions in mindless stripes.

Standing feet sore as memory
sitting back bent as intention
circling the main point scribelike
tension spent as pen takes off
night is gone dream is flown.

Left without trace of tide
my bay is empty dry and far
away in flat distance shining
halfway through the day an edge
rolling in by sundown.

All that sand with only a rock
riddled by holes planted as if
to stare upward cockeyed
at my newfound friend sky
where flawed ideals reside.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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