3.31.2005

5-minute poem #3

(speaking of unnecessary prolificity...)

my primary love language is 'acts of service'


like the smell of Thursday
sweet and thick with friday’s inevitability
service is fragrant to me,
is rose-like, is
like the sound
of the small, slow stream,
whose soft rippling the wind blows by.

like the smell of almost-thursday
on wednesday night
is the thought of what drives
her service,
is
the question: why?

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