I thought I was done with drinking
though the glass still has farther to go.
The tree bending with the wind,
the sun still harboring the work of ants.
Our labors are eventually all that is left
once we get to leaving. I can only stay still
so long, then everything has to have a say.
The paving stones, the broken bricks,
the sway and skip of so much green
lost in the creep of dusk.
Steel and ceramics, so many small birds
feeding on something scattered in the street.
This is the life, daylight so slow,
sleep so fleeting. This is the life--
so much lost still left to lose.
Cracks in the pavement skipped,
honoring the lay of the rhyme.
Everything over, and still so much
waiting to hate and favor.
Another portion yet lit so suspiciously with-in.