no one sits next to you on the bus because you look too lonely

diffuse glow of morning light frosts the living 
room windows. our daily triumph, to again perceive 
a star aflame in a sky we do not understand. this rising
light partitions itself to fit between slats in a blinding
of large window’d door. we revel in this quiet
sense of control; choosing when we blind and when we allow
imprint of light. outside small enclosure of current
inhabitance, the lawns are strewn with leaves, 
littered with campaign signs from an impending
election. leaves rustle and hum, the light
reflecting off and glowing through them. campaign signs
bark and wheeze, projecting frailty and cloying 
of desire. and these leaves, cast offs from a tree preparing 
for its seasonal dormancy. they served their purpose 
of collection and motion, and are now granted a brief glory
of flight, fleetingly held in the elegant tilt of our sighing 
sky. and these lawns littered with human hope, with signs 
proclaiming truth or deceit, through the cracking yellow 
of sun-fade and Autumnal consumption, these signs hope 
to invent into being the methods to secure safety
of land beneath footfall, of another sun-slatted morning
held in the rooms of our living. we, believing ourselves
granters of permission; to our windows and whether they frost
in celebratory sight, or darken in a many-lidded blink. we
organize as humans, into tribes and teams, into 
communities and parties. we set ourselves towards
and against, believing to support and oppose 
are the bipedal necessity of our ambulatory ambitions. we 
set up hierarchies of success and failure, cementing 
the false-truth that a progress for one requires the regress
of another. the window blind does not stamp out the sun, 
slatted shadows on kitchen floor do not prove 
a patterning of existence and phantom. the leaf is not a failure 
in its Fall, it does not shout a frailty of promise in its lilting

leaf’d lawns left to be, quickly become 
loam’d for the shock of tomorrow. perhaps 
in the fervency of our human littering, signs 
that shout and gasp, continues 
a creation of fecundity, allowing for a ripening 
towards what we might startle to become. 

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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