Monday, January 31, 2011

A Break

We walk down to the estuary.
Raising clouds of insects
like smoke, with our feet.

We look for clues
in the sky or on the water
as to what has happened to us.

Not just who said what, when
but the death of that bright us,
that used to shine so hard.

Where now we 
are signal towers in the night
with no codebooks.

And the fog
around us is made of
deadening sadness.

As we wonder at
those other two.
compared to the careful, bored, lonely people

We are now.
With only
a desire to be done, in common,

Note: This a work of fiction

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