Poetry

Summer Bummer, 13 (165.)

A chapter
goes fast sometimes,
and other times
it goes so slow,
that one book stretches on for months
and where it began, no one knows.

This is a rare occurrence.
Usually a book passes by like a rocket.
Fast, gone, but felt.
Like life, the speed now alternates,
fast, slow, in-between,
some memories mashed like a closed accordion
and others elongated
like a bone pulled too far.

This is the journal of a life.
Short and long and
fast and slow and
here and there
and every
where
it is written, it has been written, it is being written,
and every word’s a pleasure
no matter the time it takes.

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