when you are waiting
as passive as the glass you drink from
calcined, corralled
into your adequate shape

stand,
skin of your temples limned
by fluorescent,
until your legs ache
and while you are waiting
biding your time until they lift their heads

every disparate form you've taken

sends off their own light
a wild sunbeam toward each coast
broad, bolder-*****
your spine the rock entrenched here, there, wherever

those loafers become one with the floor
melt into it, you
the offshoot of spit
from a rallying cry;
the last good drop of Pentecost
pooling into the terrazzo