orbiting
Too quiet for this world and its changing landscape.
A crooked candle burning.
My thoughts hang
too loose at the waist.
Too snug at the hips,
like ill-fitting black pants.
I can admit--how strange
these movements may seem
slothing along broken branches
piled on empty notebooks.
How does one explain
quiet bravery
of living
amidst all
of
this?