The afternoon holds just enough
Life and dying,
To be familiar
In the narrow, empty spaces
That keep to themselves
In a confusing mass of briars,
And dried or mildewed berries:
Take your pick.
While the shadowed visitors of place
Return home.
.
The day’s path gives a ride
Good sojourns,
Moving, really moving along.
And this time:
Like the knob of some old radio,
Cranked slowly one way,
Boisterous and fading
Again and again.
.
Nobody talks about this stuff,
Making for poor politics.
None, really.
Unless we can all turn askew,
Upwards. All of us.
.
‘Cause we all see it our own crooked ways.
.
And one more:
Don’t fall for the witching hour,
Telling you, this moment:
Some speck of time,
that could turn the day.
No. Don’t.
Just watch this time,
like it was back then.
Shaken Rain 