In medias res

Where is the midpoint of a segment
Whose length is the darkest mystery?
In the purgatory of my life I am
God’s petite mort
My body burrows into the comfort of doubt
Kissing the autumn’s painted mouth
Suspended between vapor and ice
I tug at the covers of my dreams
Unsure whether to kick them off
And dissolve into this plasma that
Is your presence


      1. You deserve the kisses, like a G.I. liberating Paris–men, women, children shgould mob you just to touch the helmut that keeps you safe from the incidents of war that life is for poets who feel the air is more than atmosphere.>KB

  1. I read this six times. It resonates for me personally as a mid-life poem, since I’m starting anew and don’t know where I am on this journey. It resonates doubly as I just read about someone who died in her sleep at 39 of a blood clot; this and other things, happen. Indeed, we are partway through something, but what are our coordinates? Perhaps this wasn’t the work’s intent, but it’s what I felt, deeply.

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