The thick air weighs heavy against the skin a reminder some things are not in our control. Cutting through tires out the limbs leaving them limp on the walkers sides. Nevertheless, the outside calls early with the morning dew even when the night sweats keep them lying awake. They come as a reminder as well. Nudging places hazy nights only seem to stir. They begin then to walk in their sleep. Their minds won't allow their bodies to rest and their bodies won't allow their minds to be still. There's a longing that cries in the silence of the night. It grows louder as the floor boards squeak underneath the slippers. When they awake in the morning covered in lint, they'll wonder when did they drink the water from the glass now sitting on the table.

The raspy sound of my voice empty as if it came from someone else. I often stop to listen to its tone. I wonder if anyone notices when I do so. I check to see if the sound turns on me and decides to say what I have ordered it not to. Anything sealed like the idea of finding anyone who walks upright as I do. One to pour the contents of my heart into--to think what I am willing to extend will be returned.

I looked into the eyes of those both old and new to see if what I was looking for lied within the pupils. I thought I had found it. And just as I reached for it, it turned. It moved as if it couldn't trust what it felt. As if the sound of my voice pierced its ears causing them to bleed.

Enduring the Moment

The night seasons clothes are tattered. Anger tore them, exposed the naked flesh. The promises made didn't keep away the grave. The pit opened its mouth to receive its fallen.

They're ready to dance, to mark the end, to rejoice in another one's error.

The neighbors, dressed for the funeral, hastily dug the grave. No words were spoken at the ceremony. They had forgotten the kind acts of the past. They fled from the site. They even forgot the poor souls name. Only the date marked the stone.

The Taste of Dust

A crimson worm, it's belly so close to the earth. The clay finds a way to cling to the skin hiding in the folds. The stench is as unbearable as the deeds. How long must I suffer? How long will you leave me in this vile state?

What Moves at the Margin: Selected Nonfiction

What Moves at the Margin: Selected Nonfiction

Shared via AddThis

Move

The moving ground shouldn't trouble at night.
Neither should the necks of those betting against you.
They won't be heard.
Their rags will be the dirt of that same ground.

Find rest in knowing
The words of the heavens reach across the earth.
In every language issuing knowledge.

To tremble at the voice is clean.
Cleansing even the secret faults.

The request make their way into the room.
The banners wave before as petitions

Even in the courts, the words help....strength....
Mingle among the common pleas for grace....

Even for the length of days......