the path is always longer
going back
the road is always full of cars
in front of you
a bag of groceries is lighter
the more we pay for it
the world is only round
on a bell buoy
a shadow gains no length
of Fridays
we remember only what we have forgotten
on the first of the month
the coins in my pocket are fewer
than the ones I put in
the cat always wants out
Saturday morning
we kiss the same way
only once
we are taller when we go to bed
then when we get up
there's always twice as many garbage sacks
as we filled up
what we knew that we knew
we don't
a leaf always falls
on its right side
a shadow's angle never lays the same way
twice
the past, present and future
are a myth
we never see the same things
the same way
in backing out of our driveway
the road is always full of cars
the dog always barks
on Sundays
men run out of words
before women
time is not
very long
a pillow never smells the same
on Wednesdays
a spider is only big
when it has no place to go
a poem is only a poem
when it is not prose
going back
the road is always full of cars
in front of you
a bag of groceries is lighter
the more we pay for it
the world is only round
on a bell buoy
a shadow gains no length
of Fridays
we remember only what we have forgotten
on the first of the month
the coins in my pocket are fewer
than the ones I put in
the cat always wants out
Saturday morning
we kiss the same way
only once
we are taller when we go to bed
then when we get up
there's always twice as many garbage sacks
as we filled up
what we knew that we knew
we don't
a leaf always falls
on its right side
a shadow's angle never lays the same way
twice
the past, present and future
are a myth
we never see the same things
the same way
in backing out of our driveway
the road is always full of cars
the dog always barks
on Sundays
men run out of words
before women
time is not
very long
a pillow never smells the same
on Wednesdays
a spider is only big
when it has no place to go
a poem is only a poem
when it is not prose