I find the book isn’t where it belongs
and the little and the long parts
of conversation circle back
to sweetnesses so strained by rhythms unbroken
for so little and so long by habit, by chance
by everything being all Seattle in Texas in winter
where such books mean such different things.
I hold an idea until exhaustion sets in
and the lost art of praying for my enemies
becomes a measure less, a measure more
more movement toward expecting
such an unwelcome realization: I have no enemies.
I find and hold so little, so long
of measures less and more lost than ever
I could have guessed. Circling back
upon disappointments devolved into energies
driving what’s broken in order to order
what has become so disordered
as it yet holds the hope
toward which the rhyming rhythms move.