This poem 
is a Thursday 
not a Fri-yay 
or a weekend whirl. 

It curls right into 
those, but supposes 
it must be the bridge 
from hump 

pose and all those 
lost wor(l)ds in between. 

It’s seen its share 
of lightning and striking 
matches and bright sky 
sheen, but mostly it’s 
just lying 
softly, largely unseen,
barely a trace. 

(By next Monday we will 
no longer remember its name, 
if we could ever pronoun(ce) 
it in the first place.) 


In November, we poem.

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