We are glorious disasters,
We would beg your pardon, but we couldn’t
care less about forgiveness, and we are tired
of time spent on our knees.
Please, give us a place to call our own, a cave
of embered stone to light our way to long-lost ink
-lings of our storm-tossed selves.
We are adolescent myths and keepers of the night,
here in good faith and form to fight it out among
these tumble-tired strands.
This is our darkest hourglass sand, and we
have counted its grains in heartbeats and
pebbles strewn along these paths
so we might someday find
our way back.
In November, we poem and poem.