Other
days we are fine
firing
together like four legs of a dog
pursuing
nothing
and
recognizing nothing except the right to run
and
to express in circles
what
type of desirous thing we are
we
may find company
on
those days
we
may find cheer at a bar with chirpy strangers
who
know very clearly who they are
we
may walk the churchyard
and
read the contented
dead
we
may marvel at the sunset and its seeping
the
sky a shining bruise of gold and red
from
an admiring hilltop
knowing
we too
must
go down
on
those days we are fine
the
world is as well put together as we can be
the
grass grows
as
the soil beckons
the
cliffs collapse as the sea dances
and
we are as much plastic
as
of stardust
these
days
these
other days these days we do not mind
these
days when we are fine
we
are forgiveness
itself
of
each other and of the world we make we
summon
in our image
on
those days
we
are as close as lovers and inseparable
as
the tides
the
heart skips and the eyes stop wide
and
we are raised aloft in ancient awe
of
the one reflection
most
days we do not appear
in
harmony
most
days we are torn between night and pain
sometimes
we go looking for the vision
the
great unspoken peace
most
times we fail
some
days we go grieving after beauty
some
days its emergence makes us cry
sometimes
we feel sorry
for
that sad side
of
ourselves
sometimes
we feel the calling of self-murder
isn't
suicide
some
days we aren't ourselves
other
days we’re fine
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