Another new one, in its early stages. Enjoy.
Of clenched fists and chewed nails, the cotton.
Sometimes, all at once.
We could do worse.
There’s always the ground’s finality. It never lies.
We are a surface, we are a tension. We are suddenly anxious.
A verb, repeated, becomes a noun.
It doesn’t seem, given these further explanations – this focus on it – human at all.
Parse this, just how this is; how this might be.
Of love, now departed, seemingly tout de suite.
The exact gist of those recurring waves? Hard to fathom.
The unsteady wake of your conscience. Conscience, be damned.
To bother, to cinch, to re-tie.
No doubt, but… still. Staid.
Light-glittered snow, just so.
Fine grains salting the air; a coarse grit caught at the back of the throat.
Would you – could you – be tempted by some gin?
For what it was; for what it is. Or why. Or how.
what we’ve taken in, what we’ve been;
wheel, struggle to parse the true meaning for over.
Right there, standing at the threshold of
limning of what it is we’ve been living.
Something unruined. Or, still to ruin.
Dark wonder bundled, still. The tousled bed’s far edge.
At once: how each year’s a talus, manned.
Been. There, unfolding.
Consider all these things
a gate, a gait.