GROW TOO TIRED OF CONSCIOUSNESS

We yell at each other
until our throats scream.

The words (mean)
and we know it!
It is when we
reach unconsciousness:

we turn into sweet, tame little cats.

Cuddle, we mumble sweetness,
we love with honesty.

(an accidental poem by kris of ZUPAdream)

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THE FIELD BELOW

I’m sitting at the glass balcony
and the sky
is filling high tide
with copper
and lilacs.

Small kids wear blue
oversized football helmets
and run in synchronized patterns
in the field below.

Now they hold hands,
sweat caught in eyelashes
(I’m guessing).

They jump and spin
and can’t stand still.

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ONE FOR THE BOOKS

Older ladies in coats
so long you’d swear
they’re just modified
sleeping bags.

I’m collecting a vivid
memory reel of this
r e l e n t l e s s
cold snap and the
sky’s powdered sugar
palooza.

Inventing new ways
to find zen in the blocks
of icing-white sidewalk –
runways for children
who will spread imaginary
wings.

Companies saying, stay
home you nonessentials.
Office plants left moping
in the dark.

The city sweeping snow
from sidewalks using
snowplows.

STAY ALERT.

Where can I hail a
snowmobile?

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