what these little hurts make is
sticky pudding, black with dates
left awhile to wait
and grown crass and gross
with mold and moss and age,
liverspotted like damning words, which march
in regiments across a page
and, denying understanding in their martial movements,
lose context as they go
so i lose my shape and
i bend and break with the hard elbows and
jabbing umbrellas
and proofs which i must offer of goodwill and faith

don't we all look for quiet?
but i lie in my bed and the thundering feet
and the harsh teutonic squeals
and the furniture movers at four am
are like the poltergeists of my perished heart
tapping out a message i would prefer to ignore
cracking knuckles and slamming doors
making manifest the truth of this long and harried wait
while in my stomach, hidden by analgesics and coffee
coil the overripe mysteries of life
which i may yet accept or deny

this is all borne
moment by moment,
and distractions come and go.
i'm not without hope, though sometimes i fear
hope may have gone on without me.