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.