“The white on timber, it’s peace, or crime, following force”

“The white on timber, it’s peace, or crime, following force”

That day, all the space between
how I stood,
spoke, with the
wind, not strong, but there, distinctly-
going into a rush
that hits nothing-
the mind like that too-
is letting go of it’s
particular wreckage,
attachments,

In the small pockets
of lost jeans-
the way the earth smiles
at something so simple-
prepares itself
for the ability to accept
the confusion, the ‘at first’
pain of it’s state

the person we have been
at stake,
as things are lost to themselves
with the next step,
and the day as it opens up
to put light against the
dirt of our skin,
that onslaught of self-seeing,
it may be very little-
unimportant, or- it may
be the stuff of our stuff-
what makes, suddenly-
anything everything.

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