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Wayward

Designs find their place
slowly taking shape.
Web and flake such grace.
The timing seems to tape.

They gather and disappear
not in memory but in time.
The strangeness of our sphere.
What do they prove to mind?

That geometry is real?
Not a made-up axiom.
But both have thing-appeal
that wakens and moves on.

So much catches disappears.
The frost comes to tears.
My breath in the cold.
I’m too wobbly to hold  

unless you can restore
my deeds near and far.
You’re nothing but a pore.
To hell. I still adore!

What does that mean but challenging
the ins and outs of love.
All comings and goings
can always turn to shove.

Published in Poetry