I can’t speak to my own purpose

any clearer than a drop of dew

on a fencepost.

I hope it’s worth it

for as long as I can stand it.

She was bedecked with jangles and suede

ready for a cool drink in a dim pub

excited to build something beyond her

But he wanted to sit across from her

in a vinyl booth with coffee

in cracked ceramic anxious to tear away

jagged bits of himself he held close.

Their projections of themselves barely

fit the other, but close enough so

mental acrobatics were like emo foreplay

and sparks between them glowed

as pure as muffled glittery first snow.

The rain didn’t register over the things

they didn’t need to say.

The words of forgiveness and suffering

were not easy to listen to,

what with images of dancing and touch

coming so closely with the heat

of the rising sun.

Learning to welcome worldly torment

hoping for otherworldly release

because I am alive and utterly human;

the form we have is not ours to keep.

the sky is too open

with no confessor to be found;

the cravings multiply:

flannel on an autumn porch

mouths too busy to talk

silence with no judgement

boots or books pushing onward

to a darkened view of an angel

back-alley revelation

fragments of flesh that don’t fit

but want to be held together

and (oh god!) be loved

the feeling of generous friction

where stars used to be found –

don’t let the world awaken yet

quiet spaces in the forest

lists of things to remember

keep. pressing. buttons.

a lifetime of foolish choices

based on inward frenzy

and a faraway call for peace