allegedly charming

Wasn’t it, though?

 

When the sky breathed and

there was the sameness of

the greys patterned in tea

cups and the layers of book

dust sleeping in moldy caverns

blazing dank and dying while

the clouds carpeted eternity and

there was waiting.

 

We were for that brief in

hale that doorway of possible

—our “ility” sagging behind with

patient luggage, too clean—the Scavengers

of the Dawn, riding harsh and fearless

in the gentle golds of the blessed. Our

Tomorrows lines on our palms and doubts

in the light.