and how // does / here // appear / to there
Bent, I tiptoe down the stairs, down the dirt road
Like a vein of hard coal, it was the strike
but I am afraid the eagles have their own theories of joy
Dark Matter. / It can’t be seen. It holds us together.
Having / inherited this current form
The woken hours / What is seen as waste
I wondered how they found / my limping / tongue
I want to begin this story where it ends.
Would it be fair / For the man to press the switch / Of departure?