your song, it fills the air
in a giant open room where
a statue hides it's derriere,
bashful.

sometimes i wish that i was there
at other times i don't
a part of me thinks that in a million years i'll still think about you
a part of me thinks that i won't.

but, in the middle,
it's a riddle with which i play,
not knowing what to say,
ruing every day
that goes by.
and these thoughts, the ones that i avoid avoiding,
tend to disappear in obtuse awareness
of your presence, which i'm in,
and my excuses are growing thin.

you're a beaut',
you're acute.
you're astute.

in the furrows of the mountainside
there is a hermit wand'ring,
wond'ring,
and down he comes, amidst the thundering,
to do his blundering, which he enjoys.