i guess everything feels
like a tin whistle
when you listen to the blending
of a tin whistle in harmony,
gently windchiming
around beads of wine
through your blood.
you drive and see the news sign hanging,
expecting click it or tick it,
drive sober, or get pulled over
but something is different
and you light up greatly,
no fatalities
no one has lost this great windchime blood
in weeks,
in over a month,
you hung mistletoe this afternoon in the foyer,
feeling cheer, feeling a tin whistle pine morning feeling
that something is the star of Bethlehem, or at least the top
of your tree.
And here, no one has kissed you yet
and here, nothing really set
but no blood shed in the deep dear frost
of winter nights feels safe, feels rising
like vapors from my breath
instead of ghosts of who's left
darting, weary memories I'm altogether missing,
even though I'm not sure I have done any of the right things, there's this.
that i can feel a tin whistle dancing and i'm alive.
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