Friday, December 17, 2021


If existence has no meaning, 
surely, it must at least 
have an undertone—

like that resonance 
you still hold 
at the tip 

of your nose, 
even after a bell 
is done ringing;

or the mysterious color 
of light on the limestone 

the instant an afternoon 
flows into night.

Perhaps we simply fall   
into the mood 
of believing 

we've endured this far 
only by measuring 
the distance 

not as the difference 
of now minus then, 

but a collection 
of formerly useful

as many different 
colored ribbons,

misshapen, slightly shredded, 
torn from ex-birthday gifts,

saved in a old shoe box 
underneath the bed.