three nice lines of poetry—
all memory of them blown
all memory of them blown
away now like a lone prairie
moan.
It had the special coquetry
that I save for certain people in my phone
It had the special coquetry
that I save for certain people in my phone
contacts—I sit alone
and they join me because they like my jollity—
memories of them blown
and they join me because they like my jollity—
memories of them blown
into my lamp tonight as I sit
quarantined
here in the remote outer Hebrides
of my distance—all chances blown
here in the remote outer Hebrides
of my distance—all chances blown
long ago on the one big bet that I left
home
to make—succumbing to the mystery
of what I never recorded on my phone.
to make—succumbing to the mystery
of what I never recorded on my phone.
Well, you have the bay horse,
I’ll take the roan,
and we’ll ride together through the fields of history.
Recorded on my phone?
All memory blown.
and we’ll ride together through the fields of history.
Recorded on my phone?
All memory blown.
