Putting It All Down
We put it all down
drifting lightly over the faceless,
those days between joy and doom.
Looms the write
seeking to thread a life
through a needle.
The print not ink, nor blood,
but only a lip-reading
of the hours.
Events are picked
like ripe or dangerous fruit,
the dull stays stored
in moldering boxes, or nailed
into the escutcheons of rusting locks.
The specificity of a moment
is given a greater gravity than it ever had,
yet we put it down
fasten it to strings of sounds
and then extoll or deplore
once more.
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