Crush

All these — crafted indirections to you
lead me to unnumbered trains and in its lawless tunes
I find you; I find you –
On the oldest graves, where wild flowers limitlessly bloom
They protest seasons, the moon and the imperious books
All these — crafted indirections to you
Under the sturdy trees that let loose in their youth
Where ardently, under the passionless soil, knit their tough roots
I find you; I find you –
In the trams of Boston that force awake a day of nothing new
A girl holding a trumpet casket, perfects her haiku
All these — crafted indirections to you
The sudden flight of unnoticed crows, the sky now a bitter brew
You’re in New York, in its blend of grey and green crowd, you infuse
I’ll find you; I’ll find you –
On the feral villanelles, I try and tame and yet fall prey to
Of me, of you, of our words in imperfect suits of pocketed truth
All these — crafted indirections to you
and I find you; I find you –

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