July 3

An odd gnash of knees,
somewhere in movement
reaching past things
and ideas to people
waxen as ever, unmapped
and scattered billion-parted,
hissed out sneezily, a flume
so wet and despondent
like there was so much more to see.

Painted up now for naught,
all allowed and tired, heavy
with hair practiced to the point
of hands frayed by subtle
axe-work, the wood wearing
down hands rough-hewn

and still on the right side--
really the better option.
So the joints bump together
and the comfort seems lost
in tossed toes and strides,
in want of sleep, in need
of words without holes.