Silent morning. Earthly peace. Servant girl re-swaddles.
“Change is the only thing. It’s the only thing there is.”
The seagulls, too: they screech in semi-reliably recorded history.
Such keen eyes, such keen resolve.
I watch her and she’s wistless as she weaves and waves again.
Soundless stands each stretch of houses.
Bayit-Lekhem in wintrous calm as coarsest night kills evening.
Gotta. Gonna. Wanna.
The candle on the island lights the moving, glass-bound muse.
Where is the poetry and where’s the poet that it clasps to?
Play, pleigh, puhley.
O’er th’aural landscape rest the guiding waves.
P’rhaps we won’t stop anymore, now there’s no space – seat or floor.