Old souls mutter the same
sounds they muttered last year
and every year since there
were sounds to mutter, clink
and ramble, endless moan
of mix, winds like eyelids
fluttering open and shut.
At the exquisite edge
of imagined a kind
of brevity lives,
looped in eddies and drift
as if there’s only so
much of itself the world
can take, only so much
it’s willing to give back
even now, even to you,
and the rest are just signs
muttering your reasons
into polished gravel
to roll from where you are
to compulsion and back
again. All of this wants
to be more truthful than
it is, blood to bone to
ear to air to mind to
stone, rubbed relentlessly
into shine and startle
like fish slick as changes
of heart inside their wild
panics, faint ripples of
vanishing in their wakes.
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