Dawning precedence lost the moon to
thin purple
glasses all
over
gravity’s nested
waking hour.
A complete generation of potentiality crawled out to air their eyes and speak
to you. You sure you don’t want to? Maybe is here.
But no, there was never a choice at all. Maybe
was teasing
you behind your
back. But
you aren’t hurt, just still,
frozen by
how it all turned out. But the movement goes faster yet, whether you run or
count clouds
until the lamps light up. The street likes to wear her yellow pearls of
night.
Ago is a mirage. My knees were stiff rooted in the ground.
Now walking,
the hour of demand
marches.
We are free for cutting or
more running.
The morning rush of wind steadies into the monotonous tone ears adapt to and
ignore.
Wind quickens the pace to wake us up into a scream. Wind asks for “change†in our
Sleep.