Grey Matters

The chiming of bells is all that is left
where there was previously an orchestra

and the lack of light hours makes me
weaker. A tray of cold food and a mantra,

sung, is how I greet each sunset. De-caffeinated,
with a head that throbs as you tap fingers.

I’m digging a hole in sinking sand but
the dream of smothering silt still lingers.

Feathered sacks are a temporary lull in
the proceedings that I call “home.”

Fall, with arms aloft and eyes stuck shut,
into the evergreen, burgeoning gloam.



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