Each Hinge is So Delicate

The train is not early
and so I am not crying.

I sit here and want
to sit at the edge of our famous river,
dropping the petal of each word
into its currents
as the promises I am yet to fulfill
and thus yet to break.

Each hinge is so delicate.

Do I confuse flexibility for fragility?

This, too, I may not know
until beyond never,
or simply never
know.

A black bug walks out from between my feet
and as is possible when I am this
fluent in listing
to sense all elements at play,
I imagine it is you
appearing and departing
my care and quarantine, risking
the journey accross the width
of the train car
to vanish behind some stranger's belongings.
And at such moments of ease,
I nod into existence.

Ontology needs this and that
in its indexes.



by jerry gordon