Still Trying Stuff

Almost like the buildup of snow in the mingling mountains, we word this ripping string. Diving down is how we wake: shiver out the drunky morning, sound of traffic-clang and hand goodbye. Here some meaning, here a fish that grumbles when we figure the world. Always a crosswise world, always a pale resistance. Nearly all of life will happen without us. We remember that we are for ashes, for grinning and for times. A grey-black fuzz hangs in corners and we try not to heel around it…try to go through. Here we are in the fire that sloughs us off.