My laughter is a hopeful beat
waiting out the ponderous heat
that warms and spills,
ever like coffee on my lapel,
as it slips soulfully into my throats
Let this eye remain dry
because I will it so.
I know that pressure mounted,
forever brushing my hair
out of my squinting eyes.
There is a book within my pauses
so many histories recorded
while I sat or rested, softly,
staring into the back of my brain
conjuring dreams and confrontations
with the vespers of my battles.
My past is one ponder repeated
never quite completed…or forgotten.
I finger gently the worn trails of it
accustomed to each line that flows
from my heart to my head,
and back again.
How to explain that this is not solemnity
but a comfort, a blessed sacred,
a soothing realm that knows me
and doesn’t care
if I stare overlong at it
wondering at its presence and its particulars.