toe to tile
backbone to barren floor, frigid -
chills to clammy skin
a gravity that sinks deep into the gut
you are drawn to low things
fallen fruit and dirt between the cracks
down and damned,
already
and you are made from darkness
low voices clinging to cigarette stained walls,
you found comfort in your riven body being
far beneath brainwaves and scorching eyes
a safe haven in the fault lines that run
from the refrigerator to the stove
and in the smell of alcohol and Clorox mixed
all pulling you further in
the ones on foot can trample you, still
but you are a million cutting shards (broken)
this is why you chose the ground
flat-spined, invisible
down and damned,
already
S.
Priorities
Seven hours ago the clock stopped its rhythmic onward movements and paused awhile to admire the sun hovering over the water banks, the melody of the song birds floating above the forest pines, and the dance of the children on their daily march up the hill.
Not everyone noticed this rest of seconds. Carrying on, instead, as though the universe was not an alarming, and devastatingly lovely place. (A place so worthy of their simple attention.) Their schedules refusing to lend way to magnificence.
And there it is: the tragedy of humankind. That one could pass by without breaking to applaud the world in its splendor; not reeling as all creation unfurls itself within our grasp.
S.
