nothing special, this way comes. only the tedium of adequate days
where the light is enough to call nightfall “ the dark, white meat of an eclipse “
while stars are the implausible sirens of a quiet.
or a “hum” without lips.
we attempt to infuse our wayward epiphanies
with a veneer. never a deep stain for our shallow ponds.
only the very best things for a reckoning
to stumble upon.

and sleep through.

we hoard our moons where our perishables can sing softly
as the entire world forgets how to hold a note-
accountable. we resound in a vacuum
of Unrequited Introspection.
we see the Other as Ourselves-
but come undone
for giving a
**** to
salvation-

on a platter.