the earth rolls over
careless for the most part
the same
in tone and reflection

what’s hidden remains

a city’s collapse   its
            patterns of arrangements
with movement being what it is
take heart and rejoice
nights toil upon us
wanes without our knowing

            what it means
to be here   the the of fissures
conversations held with ourselves
rehearsed by what forthcoming
in which we get someplace
                    or another

overwhelmed are we
            in containment
the repeated memory of
making a different decision
when reaching for your belt
seems a better way
trace your skeleton
one hundred times a day
taste your eyeballs or any
part else that leaks

caught in conjunctions

                    give us
a little time
for some words between us
a little time to wait
                    give us
time for our hands
to make some occupation
a little time to put off
what must be done
time to give way to what

time we have to get us to

Joel Bettridge (© 2002)