the drips into a puddle
and a cat sleeping on my work
so that I can muddle
in other things
so unordinary or dillusionary
that happiness cannot pretend
what is real or true,
but simply imagined
among other things.
But what I can see or hear or feel
with the feelings of my heart
or my eye or my ear
a small happiness
when I walk out of doors
into the arms of my love
whom I love to see
when he comes home
to me
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