Monday, July 14, 2008

Drift

I know the bottles
and potions that stand at the edge
of worry, know the spills of flawed skin
the scratches of unseeing, and
unhearing, the pull of lost memory.
I know the dull corners
of green glass, the temporary drift
that sets reality apart from dreams.

I know all these and succumbed
to each, feel humbled
but not hollow. I live.

1 comment:

Sailor said...

And living, that's a good thing, they say.