I don't think about it any more I take out the trash noting Sticks caught in the crotch of a tree The wind does what the wind does breaks weaker branches down does not care where it leaves them on its invisible way
Days do what the days do they don't count themselves worthy as they go to release the afternoon to evening— an artless emptying to a low spot where tears tend to pool if I'd let them down
“You know, in that low spot out there...?” Where it's hard to see Where its hard to care?
They take heart out divide it by energy for sadness— I haven't got
Watched the clock go round wipe out my little plans with relentless hands