I’ll find the humor in everything,
Art in whatever bends me to
Frown. But I need more
coffee.. It always deserves a sonnet.
Garbage, the stress, throw it away
Before it grows, or spreads, or somehow
threads into my pours. Words in jazz
Drums and trumpets. But there’s an
Song before the pen spills,
Water of oil, no paintings just
unexpected symmetry. My son, with books drilled
Into frost bitten circles–
Into the new measure with more presence.. I think I finally have essence.