shorebirds are having
fun.
days have been
unbendable.
at times, we face
an abysmal piano. we might play it loudly, slamming against keys, given to
expression.
meandering long
sparks, seated, feeling voltage, imagining whom it might be.
on our
existential, so stoic, warm refrigerators.
by eco-system—writing
machines—listening for each season.
a new recipe,
a folded receipt,
a number jotted on
it.
boxed in
modalities. reaching through notebooks. unsettled by news clippings. snippets
of inhumanity—microcells of panic—scratching patches of dry skin.
so impatient,
watching puppetry, knowing it'll be with others, if not self. disturbing by
countenance. something to his freedom. some unresolved stuff.
we might collect
cobwebs.
we might dance on
depression.
we’ll tap into our
condition.
I was searching
for evidence in a small pit, walls seemed to identify us. palming our future,
christic by nature, maybe a bit liberal—as it seems a taboo definition.
writing might
surprise us.
a woman gave it
her life.
it became her career.
mostly speechless
to have read her prose, much is hidden, much is revealed, too much is
understood.
we doubt others.
we adore our spouses. we’re most vulnerable.
each tactic
releases something. padlocks are rattling. we might have been bonobos, apes, or
appearing human-spirits. no big shock. nothing we can’t adjust to. we just miss
a link. anything but Christology—anything but metaphysic opus, any hydrant but
one of faith.
it’s explained, we
just miss a link, an evidential binding.
