December 21, 2021

some tomorrow

We are unpracticed. We are messy. We are fumbling the juggling rings. 
We are absent of a manual, our fingers oily with broken things.
We are fractioned by the math of who and where and why and when.
We are reaching into empty pockets. We are swirling toward the drain.
And yet despite the forecast and the bitter wind behind the sail,
despite the fear, despite the cold, despite the threat of an emptying well,
despite the tempest army brandishing its arsenal,
despite the rations slipping and only time behind the wheel,
we tilt our ear toward some tomorrow, stubborn with its plans.
We claim a space to write what’s next. We fish for leaking pens.