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“In this bounty, over the cusp of nearness, heard going”

Ever as this, instance, with all the occasional things
put at rest, without hut or gravel, growing un-grown
his misery, her soil, if skyline
changes now,
there is less than that
to return to

some begin to despise the beauty
and why not?
there is the widening loss
and disinterest in that loss
but there is also, love, unknowing of what it loves
yet indebted,

and any new distinct day or night
will carry the same length of itself,
the birth and breath of it’s every chance
unbounded in us.


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