Drowning In Place Poem by Michael DiSciullo
Drowning In Place
Here I am again,
pocketful of happiness,
bottles of love.
Disappearance is a virtue,
Jean Renoir on mute.
How many angels fit on the head of a syringe?
I lost count again.
Thinking of you,
thought goes to bed.
Sports and music and politics,
all the trappings of the integrated: gone.
My reel runs out in bliss,
a valediction to the pain which I no longer deem necessary.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/24/2024 1:33:52 AM # 1.0.0.1119
gathering in moments, morelike, not drowning in place. well done, sjg~!