as though this day

ruins can be new. we stand
in streams of radiance
and open wonder through
the still unfinished 
roof; nothing is still.
we talk

        of anything we can
to dull the roar of what's
unsaid; and memories, 
like emerald marbles, knock
into the sideways glances
and the contiguities
of each approach

                 of almost
broached - and mostly thought -
and danced around like dust
motes in the sunlight on

the sturdy beams of our



Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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