June 10 by The Running Son
the ʇɥƃıɹ words
Take heart. I would offer
a thousand pardons
if only your type needed them.
Breathing draws in caught moments
like living organisms,
and through these a her can know a him.
Biology binds us. I mean, is it physics
or religion connecting
your lips to me diagramming lost-weekend visits?
Or, perhaps me losing the common poetic sense
held breath inhibits?
No matter. I am betting (without apologizing)
that this new blood-mixture means I’ll break through–
me on track, life back on,
and me backing up, from here on out,
every step in my direction
with a complementary move
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.