at rest

[firsty]

coffee cup tipped over to the east
soles undone, ripped up, thrown down
i'm an armored car, i'm a weathered beast
ringing in the bell towers
everywhere i go
ringing in the lighthouses
seashores open doors
little lemonade stands gathering steel
dead brush in the backyard
everybody gather up
and go

[Arcadia]

"Peace isn't for perfeccionistas, and we are perfeccionistas"
they didn't say that but I almost can touch it
long silence
I had plenty of time to think if I were a perfectionist too
nobody was looking to each other
but we were all busy trying to do nothing

[joel]

At early dawn, the universe is stone
and smoothness, cold and mafic as if depth
and creek had pummeled deep existence bruised—
and still Horizon lays as coffee spilt:
wet black, wet steamed, wet dreamed and movement stained
and streamed with aromatic hope to wake.
At early dawn, the mourners reach the tomb—
at silent dawn, at holy dawn, at dark.
But later will I ring the bells and mark
the brightness come; and mark the empty womb
then, only when chaotic day’s regained
the madness life assumes. And what of guilt
(I slept with you through early morn)? Excused.
Like smooth perfection hid beneath the depth
of space, may peace ignored be lost unknown.