Besides
This morning at four, or nearly four
I find myself untied, unlaced, unlashed;
I find I find myself unlatched, or nearly so.
Today the morning soars but I, unwinged,
do not wheel. No. Nor, to be fair, do I
show a singular or even single care
to be aloft. I have no preference for air;
prefer, instead, the confines of covers,
the soft of my lover's thigh, the rounded
comfort of groundedness here beside her,
the warmth of comforters and her smile,
while all else seeks to fly away from me.
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Mara Buck says:
Another lovely work.
Your poetry, Ron, is so all of a piece that it conveys exactly that emotional state of which you write. I think that’s rare.
Caveat: see my blog last week, Publishing Roulette, in which I mention that several literary journals I contacted don’t accept submissions previously posted on a personal blog! Don’t know if you’ve encountered anything similar, but I’m just cruising along with the Puppy until I figure it out.
Ron. Lavalette says:
Thank you, Mara...
I appreceiate your positive response, and that my work conveys some degree of exactitude.
And I did read your entry on submitting work, with some considerable interest. Thanks. I'm pretty careful about what I post, what I submit, and where.