this road
that road
it’s the forgot
of what there was
to forget
a place
a room,
shallow, deep,
a pillow of dreams
the opening of
seasons
living in the
river of today,
reflecting away
the ordinary
fighting against
“instead”
without slipping
into madness
where broken wings
turn to rags,
but saved by angels
walking by,
healing the
wounds
Roger Singer 