enough—despite our regrets / and longings—mound, swept together / like dead mayflies, brittle / with sorrow nearly / unspeakable. Where is solace / meant to settle, like dew? / A life shatters, its hunger / for wholeness hopefully / drifting toward Mystery,
Fog. Orphaned rocks.Cataclysmic breakage. Suppose you’re driving through flatland,pierced by three hulking islands of grim basalt,harsh as a diagnosis. And what of the heart, wincing, convicted perhaps,a lonely compulsion, exposed? Moving on, into the foothills,behold the brooding, aeonian glacier—all gougeand surge, as ifunderground stealth sheared,then shifted, vulnerable mass, rehoming the stones: erratics,we call them, earthen…
like a small body of water / reflective face, upturned: benign / an entity of acceptance. / Water embraces the sunken. The near-dying / as well as the thriving stir, like plants / practicing grace as they lean on the current.
All this festooning of eaves / and downspouts! Chimneys. Shingles. / Every edge. Who leaves behind / breath, like a call card / fished from the smock / of a wizened artist, with sable brushes / strapped to each hand, faceting / gutters and sycamore trees, / even that elderly, ivied tentacle?
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