for everything which is yes

Weekends, he simply
won’t shut up. (I once made the
mistake of list’ning.)

No longer knowing–
here–how to love, a human
king turns transient.

Autumn enters like
relations come home: For some
it’s joy; others, death.

Just what I needed:
whiskey, mussels, truffled fries,
salmon, chocolate…

Sun-backed, the old barn
had the old spark, as if kissed
by a spry, young lass.

If you ponder not
the unknowns, you will have life.
But you won’t have soul.

“There’s no right answer,”
they said. “Therefore it’s not a
question worth asking.”