o, life — you summon the compunction of our beforeness.
with your hands, you have worn me like a glove, tending to your footfall of soil.
with your voice, you poise the starkness of this bleak leviathan airlessness. rousing the frogs sleeping in their fortresses — i give them no unction.
it is because life is a shard of glass surreptitiously flattened out, shifting its balance, an obscure triangle. because life is a rose of the old and my hands, a curious spry — i know not its thorns, only the dew that melds to dry. because life has left me a youngling so old, groping in the beholden dark.
i recover no wholeness, and as i sit in the middle of cobblestones, the moon whetted to an inverse dagger, the blue of the sky like a cathedral in twilight has its tremendous secrets revealed by lunar markings.
this is the voyage of the derelict; scraps of paper twirling, blown by wind from stars, the sodden aroma of the seaside — life, you are a sea and the waves unnerve the true blood of subterraneans.