Even If Just A Something

A walk not holding collection,
desultory return home, spatial
on the last of the lukewarm
nights of a falling October,

after hearing of what’s done
through the squall of the world
where there is so much
that goes on beyond us

as does the Beluga whale-
mankind and inept nominees
calculate without a worth,
even if it can swim backwards

those high pitch twitters through open water

and while in a back room, aside
one lamp on the bookshelf
under which is held a book,
maybe lays a stub of pencil,
a half glass of alcohol, muttering

mark upon what’s read to a final
fourth movement at the end
of the hour, day’s unseen stars,
iridescent effusion in darkness

from an obscene roost
in the irked fallacy
of the bulbous

for something else,
not stated predominance,
for moving in pods of thought
with the common interflow
of submerged feeling.

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