To The Fearful.

To The Fearful.

It’s a turn of phrase; a curiosity

that's burning out, smoky tendrils rising,

stinging our eyes. It’s in a fixed-up place

                                                                                                          that we first met,

                this broken mirror and I.

So, counting backwards from ten, I became

less than a shadow; I was unborn into a pre-life,

and things were wholly forgotten

                                                                                to me

                                                                                                                today.

Help us A

silent echo across the lines

across divided fields rivers trees and

shores mountains and sunsets and summer

breezes Our eases that please us

are out of our                    Pocket-Jesus

our non-believing retrieving of a compass

point facing straight back that

leaves

Us

We’re out in the road,

                                                                                sails caught in the branches of our

                                                                                                                      last trees.

It’s a turn of phrase; a curiosity

that burnt out and out and out and out and out-

standing delays in our sense of comedic timing

have left us together,

this broken mirror and I.