Leap Year

Another sunset subtracted:

lessons of the year make the gifts

that were to be given,

ones greatly reduce from the colossal.

Why does one wish for the material,

when all is soul and brains?


“I am here!” I say.

But it’s just an echo.

A campaign slogan for the hearing impartial.


What I want is a soul

that resurrects the day just by whispering

a few stanzas from grocery stand periodicals

extending the words into the infinite

for hours upon hours, until the seconds break

the distance between us.


Then we both make pancakes

and rejoice with mismatched slippers on,

a sublimation  of ourselves among the juniper and sky.


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