feet and deadlines touch the surface of the river;
the mind making an actual weight out of confusion,
the body held lifted by the majesty and surprise ingenuity of dirt.
I send out a peasantly boom to measure the boundaries of thanks:
all the possibilities of forever exist in this moment and that.
you made of those thoughts
that kept us laughing to ourselves
I cannot believe that we would dig the ditch so incredibly deep
just to barely struggle over drowning in the shallows
when it fills up.
how many times must humanity be forgiven its imitation of eternity?
never has ever been the same saving grace as always, in theory…
but the question we beg of our gods and galaxies is deeper than our senses, our theories
or our graces.
how sharp must the steel grow before it doesn’t have to bother piercing anymore?
workplace weeping stations and worship-faced followers
can sometimes fail to successfully lead self to self, through self and to never-self.
will you loan me the chisel with which I’ll chip you and the other vast universe away?
I’ve just got to get back to tidy zero before I can truly love the messy multitudes.