is it the ticking of the third hand
or the faucet dripping onto discount bulk blueberries
both measuring time
“going in circles”
as he would say
these days
when favoritisim has no force
but neither do flashing lights or this perfect view
chasing in circles and triangular dimensions
sprinklers soaking stone instead of lawn
the three of us meet in the driveway
behind the impeccably parked mini suv
masks muffling sobs
tears splattering plastic
embracing in circles
a poem about you for you (and you)
September 14, 2020
you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love
