Exile    poems by Matthew Freeman February 2021


As I was turning

in bed

during the advent
of the primal scene of instruction

(having wrestled with all the doctors and clergy
who seemed to me to be double dealing
and who would no longer take my call)

my head was tossing because I’d
just read up on the Celts

so I got up and looked
out the open clear window
at the grey Masonic Temple where
the night before
I’d had my fall and first love
and been picked up by the paramedics

and when I closed the window
it was so frustrating
to look at such a murky pane.
What’s funny is
I was starting to mean something
and not mean it at the same time.
What’s funny is that all of this is literal.

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