#Poem Why is this Street Important?

Just a hill-road from my past
but it strokes me like hot mittens,
suede or sheepskin, stirring up
not one story but many,
confusingly multiple, each touch
a start of one adventure,
or an end, or a middle,
messily overlapped, blended layers,
left hands and right hands,
rubbing and squeezing,
a knotted shoulder eased here,
a cramped calf soothed there,

sure, a kindly bludgeoning,
without question,
but I wanted laser-clarity;
a pin-pointed transcript;
itemised progress.

(Humbly, I suggest, I might
have stumbled onto something
far wiser than I could ever invent.)


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