glazed wash

i. sprain

there was the way
you held things

given to you

and the way
you held things

you had taken
for yourself

the way you carried
a glass of water

down the stairs

and the way you
almost clasped your hands

to turn the pages
of a catalog

now

all you're holding
are trembled bones

around
a wrenched

but unbroken
agony

where nothing
was before.


ii.  big bang in watercolor

i over-water
the paints

and layer after layer
nothing happens.

i step away
to let them dry

and when i return
the colors have exploded

on their own.


iii. leaf pile

the light comes
as it always does

from a burning

and something
seems to burn

like that
in me.

were i to stop
and ponder all notions

as they unfold

it might occur to me
that they curl into each other

puckering
as if burnt

into some final
single thing:

the willingness
to wait

for nothing,
perhaps--

or the diminishment
of remnants

always tending
outward.

but i find it
so hard to stop

for nothing.

instead i rake extra leaves
onto the pile

for a little more
light.

it comes.