and churning ashes;
resolute in turns both tragic
Wheels that grind
but lead nowhere-
Navigate your ragged circle,
all alone without a spare.
Clouds clap loud,
but growing weaker;
sleep supine on dusty wings-
moths that rise
while August lingers,
of bitter things,
wasted breath and foolish notions,
but twice betrayed.
Spinning lost in aimless motion
gathered threads soon break and fray-
Weaving on a loom that’s broken,
pauper’s shrouds for empty graves.
All those things you dare not covet-
beg to leave,
forced to remain.
Don’t forget your Mother’s promise:
“You, my love, are in this world-
Do not believe you’re not part of it.”