Every day is a circle --
trace the lines left by our heads,
the outlines left in our beds

on our backs as we stare at the sky --
like corpses breathing air
under weights we cannot bear

to break down the thoughts --
that are chaining into years,
uncertain conditions, uncommon fears

of invisible nets holding back rain --
enough to soil all the earth
with tears, for what they're worth.

Murky pieces of the sky --
given back to us as change
for all the parts we've rearranged;

will we e'er be the same?

08/29/2004

Posted on 08/29/2004
Copyright © 2026 Daniel Peterson