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My father's guitar.

Sunday morning on my own,
sunlight and the smell of coffee keep company.
I am passing through emotions
as through the pages of some great book;
"History Of An Expanding Heartiverse", or
"The Unabridged Encyclopedia of Me".

Some pages turn with the suppleness of spring leaves.
Prismatic, their golden illumination winks within the light,
while wan others flake and crumble,
crackling and threatening to tear at the slightest touch.
I would say I know these stories, back to front and back again,
but they keep changing; rewriting themselves even as I watch.

My mind tires at reading, tires at thinking
and retreats, so the braver body takes over with will.
It stretches long, bare legs into the heated light,
breathes low, deep sighs and gives over to saline expressions.
It reaches for comfort, in beloved, battered, black wood
and pours its solitary aches into sweet sounding.

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