The Insufferable Conundrum
is the private chaos
that no one shares
or can translate.
The confusing question
is too difficult
to articulate
in little, shallow pools
of words or
trying for meaning.
Resounding
windchimes
don't just sway
without
sound,
or hope
of being heard.
They should be noticed
dangling
on the left end
of an uncared for
garden shed.
Walking into the woods
barefoot
in my backyard
on a Friday night
and sensing movement
in wings and song
is company enough
to fulfill one
of the cavities
other than those in teeth.
Something unarticulated
fills the indentation
and the hollows
of a rickety body
I call my own.
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