I don't know
whether anything fits the bill
the coyote blue sky
the quilt cover of clouds
the verdant velvety greens
the squirreling pathway
the fallen frizzled leaf
Sometimes a story
of human deprivation
callous cruel catalytic
strikes hard
like a water filled balloon
settles somewhere deep
rattling raking rocking
but doesn't evoke the need
to regurgitate
in cadence or concern
It's much much later
only when my own
peeves dredge up
from somewhere inside
that those concentric gibberish
groove in circles
rounder and rounder
deeper and deeper
darker and darker
cluttered
labyranthine
that the groans
seek word
but never enough
but never so satiating
to empty me out
like a vacated room
or a deserted desolate citadel
where once lit up .... joyous jugglery
And sometimes
it's just nothing
merely
gliding by
in Metro
or an open window
of a rickety coach or cab
the wind swishing past
caressing chiffony
crooning humming murmuring
fragrances
wistful woeful icy whimpering
remembrances
yet not quite there
Or just a pair of crows cawing
bickering over a squishy piece of
pedigree
Nothing fits the bill
nothing
or perhaps
everything
