In Pursuit of Meaning
Tired eyes,
Frazzled head—there is no such thing as color
in this cycle of tributes.
The ground is neither sand nor as you know it.
Dogs enjoy the quietude more than men hunting blossom,
a daily task for a quid, Eros, or serenity.
Trains tug on planes, cars on roads,
words of affirmation leading the line before a pit.
Postcodes and numbers pull beggars apart,
newer things serving only as distraction.
Let us go.
