I quietly stood as the wind rattled in
And I turned very little
For what was a breeze
When the sky hasn’t fallen or yet to begin
A decent knowing it’ll
Just shift in degrees
And when standing the way I’ve been standing I can’t say the wind has affected the path

With every new whispering, trivial sound
Whether given to ebbing
Or pointless egress
From a “what could be finished” for “what could be found”
Do I let it be webbing
Composed of a guess
That I know would be better, if blemished, but beautifully built as if bartering longing for last

And words like forever don’t measure as tall
When the spaces between it
Go shrinking away
So the pieces that mattered are kept, nearly all,
And I swear that I’ve seen it
Or will in a day
When the sun, even setting, is brighter than echoes of light far away in the past

And how very loving it certainly seems
As if built of affection
And careful restraint
But reality ripples and so do the dreams
And of course, in correction,
Do fantasies faint
And in moments the magic is melting away like an abacus counting what’s left of the day and you finally see it and finally say, “all the things you were giving, or tried to convey… wasn’t love, it was you doing math…”


I find a fitting melody to rob me of the quiet
In the shallowest peripheral of allegories slipping
Where the stone is smooth as silk and all the instruments are chipping
In the slow pursuit of something half as meaningful as what it cost to buy it

But long ago I found, if only doing so in folly,
The perimeter of morning where the evening is resentful
And the lips that let me rise are, to my eyes, now only lent wool
That remains as dying needles from the pine that’s turning gray beneath the holly

And hoping it was mistletoe that hovered there above me
I recalled, as if a metaphor that only meant forgetting,
There were reasons for a second set of glasses for the setting
That extended, momentarily, beyond the limits lent to being lovely

But somberness was severed from the damages within you
Like a ribbon that was stolen from a present undelivered
For the arrows giving love and lacking pain are cruelly quivered
And the dust upon the feathers and the clouds within the sky seem to imply that this is how it must continue