Each night
the sun goes down,
starts a fresh set of
coercion,
to return again
and let the birds scream
sharply, from spindly branches
at the squirrels somersaulting beneath.

No moment is free from little negotiations.
When you buy a house
or vehicle
it could be the one you die in.
So we agree
to avoid bridge abutments
and unmonitored open flame.
Dig a peace deep and
wide enough to maximize
the amount of breakfasts we see.

Once we understand people
can actually be gone,
wrap our head around the idea
there must always be
a never again, nothing
tastes that permanent
anymore.
A resting locust in the back of our minds.

We can see the ridges of handwriting
left on the backside of blank pages,
peer through the seams
until the ink
muddles
and merges.

Still, the moon hangs too splendid
to never see again.
Forcing a primal expertise at plain-sight
hiding. Burrowed in the desolation
pyre. Palms outstretched
as if cradling a child,
skin blistering in the shade.