We collect letters like shells
Tiny fragments of self
New shoes on an autumn day
A fresh breeze
A waft of air upon our skin
The frail man waits in bed
Twists and turns
Unable to find comfort in the bedded quilt
All around is noise
But inside an aching silence
Such is time lost
A cymbal crashing into shore
Consonants tripping off a dry tongue
Poems dancing in the curtains
We are still but busy
We must always find something to do
The rain falls
The smell of water on hot concrete drifts in the window
It is a comfort
A gentle pulse
Life
The frail man moves slowly
But with purpose
He absorbs the water as it trickles down the window pane
He is connected to the earth by a thin thread of being
Raggedy shirt
Stuck to seeping flesh
And we wait
No room for idle hands
In the street of the sky night walks scattering poems.
