Conditions

Peaches ripened without any help
My nature is not “of” the state

I cannot play any kind of horn
My Heaven has something to do with Mozart

You can’t win by haunting others
My mirror sweeps the empty room

One day I’ll be light on my feet

Author: stevekuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by stevekuusisto