Telling: Streams & Logs


Perhaps not


Over-warm in my winter bed,
slow to unveil, I lie

awake, but unmoving.
Pressed flat by the thrill of busyness to come.
The shine of new hope. The weight of it.

Cradle me there awhile in the pre-verbal light.

A single car's rise and fall replayed for my comfort,
and again against the all symphonic progress of the garbage.
Return to that one breath, the rise and fall.

I gave it you. My everything and all.

You opened your hands around nothing.

Perhaps you are not, as I am,
content with small things
and their secrets.