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Rotten Apples
Tribes of us lie rotting, unossified in trenches,
wide awake and counting.
You think you count only in memory, but
it is far less real than you remember.
Bi-polar is the widest arc by time, not season, friends,
leaving none the wiser, least of all, believers.
Please let the others know this when you see them.
We were meant for more, I thought;
there must have been some subtle change of plan.
With the sun inexorable, you dream of stars
and faded quilts; of windows left open wide, to night.
I stay, resealing gaskets with the last of the Super-Glue;
of we who remain, I have the steadiest hand.
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