inclination

is it what's hidden

or upon the surface

of life where my

eyes are deceived?

all the damaged

collateral lives inside

the vaults of exalted

memory

and that long

whip that strikes

with the wet tongue

lashes the flesh. 

ever at the

ready, i see things

in echoes, dormant

seeds, Gothic light. 

i have put things

in places, or i have

not, but together 

they float in

colonies of

debris within

fine excuses and

apologies. 

what i see is what

i can: ruminanting

fossils of stories

i have penned, 

to the point

of distracting

myself from the 

beauty of my heart. 

what i love 

about nature

is what she can

give: particles

and viscera of

the departed and

downcast, shot through 

with ancient grains of light. 

it's all closer to

twilight with each

day and i have no

answers, 

just the flavor of

the skies above

and the hope of

elevation. 

what is here

is right there;

my eyes need look

no further. 

i won't know any

better anyway. 

so i will let life

incline toward life.