this is a cold Monday,
a prelude to the Sunday that preceded it.
in the silence I saw time roll back,
and guiltily stare at leaves
floating to the branch.
the webbing of this is hanging from the door frame
where you can't miss it.
a fission of routine and the unexpected need
I can't say this without breathing(.)
and it wonders is it a crisis or just
a quiet indiscretion, from the panzers and the photos
and the carpets, so far gone.
It started on acoustics,
quieted down while waiting
for something more than acceptance.
the computer types out word after word
to interrupt me.
this is what insincerity
is like. almost right but still