Other people’s
happiness
is not yours
to hold. You
weren’t there
for the flower
made of
felt, last night’s
baking scent
still snugged
in the
rafters, the titmouse
on the feeder.
Confess,
that under
your system,
everyone else’s
happiness
may be as
important to you
but you will
never understand it.
The seeds of
thistles, glory
of fire,
temptress spots of the body,
cracked hands prized
with dirt,
bootclack on
the sidewalk,
salt spit at
the corner of the mouth,
blue sky wine.
What pleases
you
is not what
pleases others,
and tapers to
monosyllabic
in the attempt:
Street lamp winks
off at dawn,
leaves creak
shut, curl,
lift in the
sun.
What other people own.
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