The all-too-restless become bitter with hope, stalled
by a pale light issuing above standing water—yet
they retain the ardentness of their sourceless unrest.
Granted, it's much like sharing drinks in a crowded bar
where a pact is stricken the hopefuls knew would soon
be broken—outside you watch the tattooed haul rock.
You feel the vibration at odds with your heartbeat,
duly violent, sharp, embodying all that is merely
fertile.
If only you could anticipate the sweep of your desires
as music congealing on your sleep-weary eyes.
Then it would be something you could hold in place
among these big-winged angels in their little t-shirts.
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