No Country

tap, tap, tap ... fingers rapping on matter, gray spun, (like wool to tapestry) hooked on rusted nails of hope and tattered by cyclonic change, demanding afforded to squeeze sense through the eye of an hourglass grains dropping as weighty promise, jilted melting into ice, aflame ... frozen call it, friend, tails or heads? "But what am I flipping for?" ... everything, friend everything.