you focused the lens

without telling me

what to see.

my Self, 

the tin ceiling 

capturing conversation

lost to passersby.


there is 

this steady waiting

at the corale gate

for love 

to nuzzle the hand,

as we stand 

at the mosiac horizon

with a bottomless 

loss for words.


only the inner knowing 

renders the complicated

into a sweet reduction.

the discipline

is our only tether.

receipt was not

the bliss.

the joy 

was in feeling 

you give.


this season,

the petals will not 



Photo: Flowers from Albertus Magnus College campus (New Haven, CT)

© M.G. Iannucci 2017


7 thoughts on “Cynosure

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