the poets that sing my absent-mindedness
somehow my body changes
i have no control over the sensation,
only the reaction
of the molecules, nerve endings, fingertips
the coffee's too hot to drink
the cobblestones in my mind's avenue
somehow appeal to your drowsy footsteps
the colors are soft
the insects, immobile
the curtain, rustling
unnoticed
except by the
girl at the wooden table
gazing upon the tapestry created
by the tree limbs down the road
[edit: not more than hour after i wrote these thoughts, snapping thunder and lightning and a brief interlude of heavy raindrops surprised us all. late summer thunderstorms surge in my mind and memory as one of my favorite things. electric movement, i think, made my fingertips and brain connect.]
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