poem

Out the window across the lawn through the gully and gulch where the slope of the hill runs to the edge of the horizon there is a group of pilgrims poking about in the grass. Moon addled forms under an ever expanding horizon. They sift through themselves, and through us, nothing is ever so concrete as this word dangled from their lips. They cup it in their hands and offer it up to us. Above the night holds dominion over the soul, which you left in the mousetrap of an unwritten stanza.