if i ever came close
to belonging, this
must be the spot.
the place where
failures and friends collect
like the white cloudy residue on the bank
of a river, stuck, wanting
to escape, giving anything to flow
again down life's fast and
unforgiving current, being endlessly
turned and turned in one spot,
moving
but stuck.
accumulating next to
your white filmy comrads
who also got caught
in the whirlpool trap
going nowhere.
going home.

stillness . . .
              then    
                      it
                        falls
         ­                 like
                           a
                       gossamer  
                  feather
                 from
                     a
                        fairy
       ­                      tern
                               in
                              a
                         waking
                   dream
                 slowly
                  finding
                      its
                         grave
                              on
                                  the
                        ­               forest
                                               floor
                                                       next­ to
                                                              ­     its
                                                                ­      dead
                                                      ­                  brothers . . .
                                                                      this
                                                            ­   last
                                                         leaf
                                                         ­    of
                                                                   autumn . . .
                                                                ­                            alone
                         yet surroundedd with the corpsess of fallen comrads