in a sense

In A Sense

most thoughts walking
and to the street beat
not listening to music so close
but maintaining exposure
to elemental truth
to the everyday hum and drum
opening upward with each egress
entitlement and enlistment
eerily enumerative
but who's counting
step it off from memory
feel it like first forays
in forrests full of foolishness
foghornish fidelities
quiet now for shames unnamed
sitting to whet with whiskey
wild wonderings while we wander
nina in native tongue
blondes blithely abound
familial memories with
this language and lassitude
what it does for my mind
(last line unintelligible)

Poem: Robert Lescatre