Morning at the QuarryWe lit filter cigarettes and pursed our lips
leaving eternity to burn like a match. If anyone
possessed a jealousy that could articulate the absent
night, the quarry still rose in gray, reticent layers
showing a desire to be reclothed and remunerated for this.
The unexpected trees grew into a sunlight that surely seemed
so strong it could easily manifest itself into something
we could only honor as the jist of our gathered affinities:
we did not wish to remember or at any time to aid
that which allowed us to elude that which stalked us.
We did not think of our beating hearts, or the shared risk,
or the brooding, assiduous certainties now beginning to gather
about the quiet pond.
rdking