Pale marks and figments of leftover meals
enshrine each and every feeble attempt
to start fresh. In the congregating din
(so many children hammering nails into
useless planks) long-abiding chaperones
may touch an arm—softly and without
rebuke—indicating available space to
refocus attention across those misty
billows of thought, movement, laughter.
Take a part from that textile decay laying
out on the lawn. Patch it into a worn
field of scars where trunks and trumpets
loop outward in golden-greys still pliant.
Make a new stain on an aged land-plot where
mustard and muskets play tug-of-war, since
times overturning time and heaps of spirits:
seem so connected to the total, hereditary
awareness of what is still left to be done.