We wear a wringing
gravity.
Our breath filled with pebbles.
Darkness, a weighted calm,
the lion’s whisper
that morning has lost its way.
Next hour and hour.
Mark us the way to infinity’s
settling mood.
In the end, all is never
all or at peace with
the beggar’s tent.
Are those nerveless
fingers
pulling at the storm?
Or impossible interjections
of doubtful purpose?
Or lost in sight of the
sentence’s end?
