A ‘smound’ may result
where a sound kisses
a smell and mixes juices
A tiny blue flower
picked up off the floor
what a blue life
Yes you keep coming back
to it again and again but
who is this I you speak of
To be your complimentary
epitaph and hard greeting
the poem insists on staying
The world mirrors reflection
because it’s nowhere to be found
a pond jumps in
Even a tiny blue flower
is too much power
for one floor
Still way back in the queue
of my thoughts are you
yes and right up front.
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