I don’t know. It hangs there unmoving, dripping as we don’t know. Ancient and it has always been there but not like this. Ice is breaking slowly and all at once, and wonder how all over again. Turning and twisting, no ending but for stalemate. The stale bread somehow clinging and pouring out into us all but what will become of the crumbs we aren’t sure and it should be here but it’s not but when God’s servants become unsure of what is power it holds us crookedly. Crookedly.
Here they are as if they had always been, blind over the mountains amidst a fawn’s uneasy motion. And it leans out the window on the bone of its hip but it can’t find out what it’s looking for so it thinks what if. But too old and too frail we carry, accept that it won’t be found as we drip into the ground. For now and always it hangs precariously not quite there, lurching to carry misplaced reverence crumbles to the unsure beat of what we thought were once strong legs on pavement now its wiry claws perched on a twig waiting for the snap
Thomas Possidente is a 23-year-old graduate of Vassar College and lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He is an aspiring writer and poet who also works in a sleep medicine neuroscience laboratory. His website: http://selfcenteredtom.com.