A small photo by the phone
by sunrise the vigils are up
as a newspaper tumbles and rolls.
No question of exit, it's not there.
Fake minutes turn like
The weather vane in solace
listens to voices within personal books,
learns how freedom becomes a last thought
before the silent bolt dividing a heaven.
Testing the water and filling
while leaning on a coffin's spade,
night declares that you can't see
the smile in lonesome music.
No light pierces dark corners
where you sit hidden in love
existing till you're yanked beyond.
Roll no dice for protections
It's the powerful brim of a kettle's steam
launched in midlife's barren waste
where the violin rests and a pupil of
the spirit is consumed living through
tough augury lessons picking shards.
It's hard to lift your feet.