Past Making Up

The snow fell three days ago
without memory of a previous
and now melted waist-deep
late-spring blanketing.

The quail on my rail fence
can’t recall when I moved in
I filled the garage with boxes
and flew off to New Orleans.

I drink hard now to make up
for a youth of dull righteousness
one more espresso
two more stanzas.

No clocks in my house
no houses in my landscape
no streets through my fields
where nothing but wheat grows.

No season like right now
to recall living in the south
and dry west and liquid east
behind and ahead without waste.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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