So many objects in my life that I can no longer arrange or make right:

a knife, a bag, a clip, a tin, a half of this, a vial of that. 

Thrown here, about and there: a case, a  wire, an envelope, an unpaid bill…

crumbs. 

I fail to align these, to order them, to impart symmetry or pattern, only random strewn clutter,

the haphazard descent of things that fall where they may, where they might, when they can.

When all is said and done, after all is unspoken, when all is naught . 

Nary a pair or a trio or a quartet of anything anywhere any longer. 

The brevity of the silence rambles on, stalks my meandering, a dark figure in an alley, in the shadows beneath the muffled scream. 

The howl of a rooftop banshee, dulcet and wet in the downpour. 

This is the coming of the age, the upturned eye, the rain-trodden smile of hope. 

To sky, always dreaming, to a star never shone, to a universe, despite its eternal course, yet to collide. 

At the top, there is no friction, only free fall, where the Earth rushes to meet us

A failed glider knows, the last drop’s hardest, but such a sweet kiss touching ground. 

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