"Happiness is the longing for repetition."
— Milan Kundera

Poem for a fall day

Lincoln Park ménage,
legends like these leaving
laceration on my sentiment
like a lucid lover.

Confines of a bus window cannot
steal away this presence on the brain.
Intimacy resided here,
leaving traces of brilliant affect.

Stately porches among climbing oaks
and sugar maple, wrap my ethos
like a tenderly knitted shawl. Leaves,

like dancing suede-like vestiges,
golden cinnamon, butterscotch topaz,
glowing copper ruby,
croon in high-pitched song along frigid sidewalks.

Grazing the earth like bohemians, they carry
onwards to numerous rows of old white houses
and brownstones. Angry wind

scours the crumbling pavement as
sunlight fades to amber lamps.
Dwelling now in my own deeply felt history and
coming of age, the backpack is
heavy as I journey toward
the brighter truth.
Veracity: I embrace you,
as one holds a fresh day in their heart.

Pillow thoughts

Love is a dream that keeps waking me in the indigo twilight, nudging me to strive for the real thing. It kisses the side of my face and whispers that it really exists in a world of excess and deceit. The possibilities are leading me to an auspicious morning sun.