Old Friends

I wrote a poem while on the last of a stint of coffee:

Discretion, in the eyebrows

Tersely clutching apprehension

In the Folds of a hidden Hand

Pocketing an address book

And

Hovering, like god

To wipe the dust and bones from the earth

With a flick of a wrist

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Maybe it's no T.S. Eliot or Cummings but I wrote with a haiku feel, trying to accentuate lines of paused contemplation.