This is left

A half folded umbrella half opened in time

 

A Clock

Ticking down the minutes left where leaving has stopped itself

 

A Stuffed Animal

On a shelf in a park where no one looks

 

A Charm

Dangling in a necklace on a string already cut

 

Love Pulling

As a door nearly closes on the step

from which you leap against leaping itself

 

Oh the fate you seek so hard in the faith you have created

 

 

A Bell

From which no sound rings for no one

 

A Bench

In a half remembered dream near a lake

on the outside of hope where you cannot sit, sitting against itself

 

A Rail

Glistening in the sunlight of dead night

layered with crumbs and direction against direction itself

 

Love Pulling

From this place near the end of convention

a scattered gathering of thought against thought itself

This is left

A drum in an ocean of drowning sound

 

 

A Gift

Of gratitude in the soundless sound of want

passed on from hand to hand in opening, opening itself

 

A Button

Clasping the endless sides of coasts

lapping wave after wave of flow, flowing itself

 

A Machine

Hidden in the corner thinking

where thinking spins and laughs, laughing itself

 

A Pain

from some dark spot nearly hidden

in the moment of forgetfulness, forgetting itself

 

A Seat

cushioned with longing throwing back

the back of decline, declining against itself

 

A Shoe

taking its own walk in an emptied forest

of forsaken song singing, against itself

 

 

 

Love Pulling

This note into being, being written

in the wide open of what’s closing, closing against itself