Complaint
You know how I hate to complain
this weather
my
neck
your habit of
making that dry hinge sound
in the back of your throat.
Knowledge, like the source of the Nile or
a
redwood seed
first
fallen flake on the slope
the
offhand flick of a fin
has a way of setting into motion
the next moment followed by another.
Time, unerring as a perfect game
rounding
on us, contours
revealed
beneath a boat
that
plies a sea of music
slips away, sure as vows exchanged
on a windy beach, but who’s complaining?
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