A child, another pair of darkening eyes,
unable to reach past what has
already been delivered, lost innocence
and the close draw to an end of a day.

In between exists the expanse
and my walk, that does not turn
out any further than the repose
that remains absent.

There is an inevitable slope in everything,
about the light not held by sycamores
along the avenue,
the optic falling without the hesitancy
foliated in the bark,
mottled shapes creased over with mystery.

Assembled pieces of procession
are marked off
in and out the shuttered homes,
sometimes carefully, sometimes not,
the more formal in my daily gaze
when in their Sunday best
to and from a church
capped with its perfected point,
to lay claim in the sky
on the infinite momentum.

At least the anticipation, thankfully,
proven useless to me, the listed forecast
traded for the air, hinted with condolence
in birds that will return
flights, tinting brief colors,

if I follow with a few new fingers
desire over and through space across time
of each wooded and rooftop perch,
embolden with the living contours.

The momentary animate nettle
often a harsh inaccurate balance, so what
of the inability to know which side
weight pulls over for a definite conclusion?

One such morning this acceptance
was started, the necessary resemblance
of being, so falsely in that it was
warm, thaumaturgy hum steam
in her moor of consanguineous
green dew of half spheres on grass
atop the lumpy ground with our grubs.

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