“The Fringes of Purpose”
If sight is what I am longing
to reach, upon the fringes of purpose,
failing to resist the huddling palms, than
a piece, if not the hole, feeds a whole
bit of ego, a far feast of buried peace.
The ice fell without warning.
A radiating heat lamp silently warming,
lights loosely the loose leafs
that hold to protect these nerves.
48 hours recorded, no longer pained
by the wandering shortage of a longing
to mortgage off my fibers and
fears. Two tongues wrapped in beer
wear and stare down opposing
loves-such a hunch is clear. A taut
pull on one’s lifeline won’t capsize,
don’t realize. Crabby time. Concepts
I will push. place. and know Mine.
The honest words of darkened hope
will change by nature.
Those who would prod have
yet to know their own will. Have never
laid upon pure intent, never shed
river-wide volumes over dollars spent,
never rolled over relentlessly.
The ice left at the sight
of a flaming desire for instantaneous might.
Much of a memory isn’t stored safely,
but the gravedigger should be laid off.