Dry Ground


Just beneath the surface of life
a river used to surge
fierce, electric
so much moving now still 
daily patterns recur
iterate like memes
incessant, bristle
(get out of my head)
slow, attuned, resume
each day hard-won
a better view to

The heart of the matter.
Where is it.
That sweet spot where we make out
tender, humane, achingly beautiful
stories told
a long conversation
a road trip with a friend
a clearing through woods
a way that is new
open, reassures
speaks to me
(Why am I wowed by that?)

Ah, well, fellow traveler
the rain won’t materialize
so let’s try another coffee.
Or something.

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