We are all
gathered around the point of impact
Seated by
the fire of old logs and old tires,
Dried-out
flowers, floss and scutellum,
A bowl full
of night by our side.
Some started
drinking from the middle
Of the
bottle, others went looking for lightwood
Just in case
we lose ourselves in the sky.
We struggled
even to form a bucket brigade
Of emotions,
let alone ponder flight.
Better if
not examined too closely,
The evening
takes on the sheen of weight.
All of our
motions fill the containers
Stacked along
the circle of companions
Of circumstance,
coming and going, unweld,
Accidents
maturated in dumb tumult.
Tomorrow, we’ll
nomad our way
Out of this
wilderness, after it falls.
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