I fear
that the world will keep spinning,
and pull ever more space inside me
through a million pinhole pinings

He pushes his throne forward
So that light will find a way
To bathe him in his druthers

Shoveling through the past,
He digs up every flower,
Long wilted and forgotten
His garden an empty grave

I fetishize the buried,
But leave them to their slumber
Memorial or catalyst in winter,
They breathe all the same

Shaking,
the moon climbs higher
Pressed against the night sky,
sunlight drips downward
If a thought could saw through glower,
or ever tide me over,
or ever bloom a flower...