Poetry from John Culp

Sorry,
    I'm talking to myself
       It's not polite to talk to myself
          and not invite you
             into the conversation.


When my mind wanders
   think of me as a kite
      high off the ground,


 Distant on a string as
    I trust you with the spool.
 
As clouds get a Bit furious above us
 You know my attentions may
   draw dangers that hopefully
     won't more than tingle your fingertips,
       should a strike find my tail.


And as I exhale
  So does the wind
    Loft my Apparency
     of coherent desertion,
      leaving the
       horizon closer
               than


 the grounds Below.