Nothing Staring Back

Winter time for staring
not hard but long
from inside the glassy
realm of belonging to
nothing staring back.

Eyes like fingers glide on
landscape of such flung
colors as banjo white
and guitar ochre under
blue basic as a peacock.

Outside as far as I get
dead rose is the word
waiting is the garden plot
relentless is the bird
the earliest gets the rot.

I have bruises plenty
mostly on my right
variously fading telling
nobody I am getting
closer to spring.

A whole unlamentable
life is composting
as we speak and don’t
disturb the inescapable
dark fecundity.

Or swirling like last year’s
broken and emaciated
leaves out of corners across
sleeping grass elated
to not be gone yet.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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