Mid-Life That dusk was too deft: it wicked sad nostalgia out of treetops, scrawled and flicked far-flung secrets across a chimerical sphere, treaded afresh its upheld ceiling of concrete gauze. Ah, those were the leaps of an unwilled mind wild atop its uncoiled spine of interlocking coins. Its ruminations flocked unherded, entwined like tendrils knitting
Sisyphus Loses Track His round trips triggered the technology of counting: clouds, moons, planets, galaxies, his rank breaths dusting the eternal groove. But erasure of future, easing of scars inflicted playing strung puppeteer to the gods, echo sweet gestures tendered like rain. Compass missing, mirror of death broken into windows cheering on chance encounters with
Wait for It The forecast hovers between soggy and gratitude, verges on awe, balances muted light against lopsided gladness. Meanwhile (though Cosmos clatters its remote stones, and Existence casts its Theater of the Unheard from among the docile), the man’s morning’s pouring itself into day—and he stares off, fathoming the frayed front sliding past outside
