I sit and watch. Cadence or tsunami. Both it would appear.
So great the power of a tear: God’s violin.
Such an onslaught.
Dealing with rupture—those months waiting upon concentration.
Literature as arcane, eyes kneading nouns.
I’d tell a tale, so unbelievable: a few are succinct.
I was unspoken, plus, I spoke, life is subjective:
living by sprouts, berries, with weather impending.
I was remembering you: education and caliber; presence and neatness. I was with sunlight, befuddled by rain, over 90 degrees of radiance.
Those faces made by stone:
often a person is self until it aches. Often wings give in mid-motion.
The amazement of the umbrella, to stand under fog … to witness a slant, a wheezing smile, gasping for air.
Too tall to intimidate; too bright to go dim. Such straw and effort. Such mortar and reality. Such years and precision.
(I would reminisce upon a feeling when sitting and watching.)
