Literature is the art of discovering something extraordinary about ordinary people, and saying with ordinary words something extraordinary. Boris Pasternak

That nagging inkling in the brain
that nothing ever can be the same.
Nights are purpled with false intent.
Days are spent deciding what is meant
by strange congruences in the sky.
Feet that will walk upon my grave pass by,
unwieldy galleons fly so high; humans
grimace and growl  like Ginsberg’s ‘Howl’
‘Look he’s throwing in the towel’ before
the jazz, before the music, that minute of silence,
notes come and go, arrangements are made
in the most extraordinary manner, such defeated
expectations: every day’s a wedding day,
every day’s a funeral. 

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