here— as if words written
on tissue meant something.
truth, if it allowed itself to be
relative, would reveal the same:
“I have never given it thought,”
And yet, still. But because.
perhaps —say it— during breakfast,
despite the cold, we become. We
let Friday settle in our shoes so it
can turn into dust. Unless songs, one
without feet to play it, can
exclam: “Be yourself”. Maybe then.
permanence never was; it only
existed in fragments. And I’ll
remember which table,
when it drops.