Not the day for the false alarm,
the robin-breasted moment,
the double entendre in the mirror.
Nothing spells knowing as a sea of foam,
dress of tears or is it tears?
How can we know, given your worried
eyes and surrogacy of words, dwindling?
Go with your clothes tucked
in a sack, your jewels hidden in sand,
your stale loaf that once smelled of creation.
What hammers you into a shape
is blunt and uninformed.
Hit or miss, our course of hours,
planet carrying its load of stones and
tissues and small green notions.
Eyes closed to the view, you listen to
your thoughts spin lace. What you don’t see
evaporates with the next cold breeze,
the next harm, positioned to descend
when least expected. What we endure
is our story. Words, abjured, are
a forest floor, thick with patterns,
left for seasons to bury as the dead
we know so well their breath is
outline and cold witness.