by Matthew Zangen
Find me in the dithered space
between kicking sleep and pallid waking,
worried lines worn out from pacing,
listening for what to make.
Morning blurs drip tepid showers
overhead and under floors,
tiring arms push up the mourner
learning through the aching hours.
Each mess you made makes up more losses,
paid in full and owed in kindness,
milling ears bid shying blindness,
hiding from our albatrosses.
Day gives dice their second chances,
noon burns out deliverance,
in patience one can find their sense
or rush to night to bet their pants.
Posted on 07/17/2018
Copyright © 2020 Matthew Zangen