sinkful

shallow can't scar.
and haste doesn't dig deep.
scratches, unlike cuts,
scab soon.

dries and shrivels up the way green leaves
crunch to brown,
and crumble. still brown.

a dimple of silent, swollen knowing
conscious of this sink
of draining memories.

like water swirling in a basin
and residing, dimpling
into forgotten depths

but all that water is dirty.


and can't wash clean.

----------------------------------

if .one of these hairlike travelling lines
on the stained mauve marble tile
leads to you

i'll assume its random
like hair floating under water

and wisely choose to
walk the mortar road.

where direction is crudely concealed
by those yellow painted arrows
that can only direct cars
but not humans.
it pretends to.

-------------------------------------

i crown these 2 weeks The Span of the Temporary. but only glorious things are crowned. so broom it.

just a temporary side rest
while the ballerina is away.
nothing is green anymore.