Relinquish
November-a-drizzle on that west coast grey
not far from the billowing factory plumes
where weary men and temp-clerk ‘girls’
punched the clock to buy more time
in the Dewdney Trunk trailer court
Holed up against that wintery veil of certain loss
they buried their growing vulnerability
beneath the slow rise of abandon, trembling
on bated breath and beaded sweat and
sweet scattered lies, that
Perennial harvest rooted-deep in whispers
what if? what if? if only?
they’d planted truths in that hard ground
like we mattered—
any cost less than this
stark expanse of springless regret
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