In its sharp angles,
November’s sun cuts deep
to starkly define
what is light,
what is shadow —
to fall upon
all these mistaken

And what of loyalty,
of affection,
of attention,
could we ever expect?
We, these accidental
likenesses stumbling
into and out of life.
We give in.

Imagination colors
each sense until
we are insensible —
seeing, feeling
more or less
than is there.

And sometimes
we sense intention
in the masterwork —
benevolent or banal.
But the cost is high —
it takes all we have.
And we are too much
in the habit
of fooling ourselves
to accept it
and walk away.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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