trudge

by Arran James

give me light days
and a theory easily digested
that takes account of
neither consciousness nor world

what is to be done?
what is left that can be done?

we meet at midday and part
in the smallest hours of bat and fox
our lips hover just above one another
a kiss for the heavens
for the infants in their mother’s beds

and we walk with necks craned high
never mind this life
the grass is always greener
for those who have already died

what is to be done?
empty vessels carry on sailing
it’s in the nature of the masts
to catch the wind

there has never been a decision

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