Though symphony plays
and the snowdens of yesteryear fade
through small packets too tiny to see
the tiny pinprick in my bowels
gives me pause, though unrealistic.
The trees and bushes of spleen,
of ideal,
of surity –
remain their welcome dearth of flower.
They beckon with the promise of fruit after precious care-
and yet the gardener dozes.
in trying to question a smile,
there are made pistoning,
souring,
Beautiful
shit-rendering answers.
and why are girth and breadth of my neighbors field
so pre-eminent?
and milk-white lenses so clouded-
perhaps, as you collapse, weak, you think:
“it’s been too long for regret”
or
“i’m more now”
and as long as either of those are true
you’ve done well.
a collection of poems and thoughts 
*dies* Oh my goodness, Alex–you have no idea how happy it makes me to read this. I have been thirsting for your poetry forEVAH.
Anyway, geez … where to start. I love how your poetry always exudes for me a sense of solitude; a certain imagery ………… gah!!! to even try to describe how it makes me feel; longing for something I can’t describe … something far away … familiar ……………..
POIJDFPOIHG{OIHGO{EH.
I know i can always count on you, sam, to read my work and to appreciate it. thank you for being there.
i think the feeling of longing for something far away is kind of pervasive in a lot of the poems i write.