A faint ticking of the clock
in the next room
and we’re fading
from each others’ view.
Blackout curtains
and a battle not forgotten.
Elephants dance the tango
or maybe it’s perspective,
like strapping in or on
and grabbing a spoon,
having at it when a moon is ready
to fall from orbit.
I don’t know what to make of it
when there are no tears left,
only a hunger and an ache
where important things used to rest.
We dance on a quiet planet,
beyond moonrise and fall,
or maybe it’s just a dream.
The Word Rummager 
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