nezamyslice

tip of the tongue state only
tongs at the end of it reaching for my tonsils
choke
on the eagerness of reaching out
you have given and now to receive you must
wait and make space

only how to bear this
expanse of sky over the highway
i am no atlas neither
crevix
sometimes not even a meaning-maker
fingers counting bumps on the back of my own neck
for a moment i am again
looking for wild geese to give sense to autumn

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