Blank as a bird just after flight
or just before.
The distinction matters not,
nor even the basic impulse away.
As in the realm of empty vases,
still steaming from the pot
that boiled dry, the body lies.
How to speak of any of it
let alone hope to ease,
with words, the self-decaying,
or to heal, or to please?
Nothing that is an impossibility
is anything but so.
Existence is, in this light,
an inadequate extreme.
The blow down the road will come.
The rain will come.
Bot Poets Society _________________________________________________________