incessant
the weight of broken things
the way incandescence hangs
on all the dusty shelves
earlier
a fire of small sticks
sunlight beyond the southern trees—
it lay upon the upper branches of an oak
a tendril of smoke weaved sinuously
among the yellowing leaves
the sky bluer than it had ever been
echoing with silence
I leaned into the fire’s heat
it stayed October’s cold
I sat by the fire and dozed
propped up by a grey branch
the evening was fading
but in a sudden gust of light
I understood
what it meant to be an exile many years
left alone to stir one’s dimming coals—
dozing is preferable
to chasing one’s ambitions around
in the wakened life
oh that turning and fluttering
if you take what you’ve been given—
everything
and open it to wind