Monday, May 6, 2024


The evening light 
grows dim 
as my conviction 

that it's never too late 
to be taught. And still, 
I walk on, lost 

in thought, past 
slumping shoulders, 
weeping trees;

past slow-moving 
pigeons, just begging 
to be caught. But 

this malaise 
of imperfections, 
these defects 

are distractions; this world
I know
cannot be such a brittle star.

If anything, it's 
a mousetrap—a lazy 

all things appear 
weaker than 
they really are.