Words cannot echo mood.
It’s impossible to convey
the tingling numbnesses
of yesterday, today.

The semi-detached gaze,
a tight closing-in upon oneself
foreshadows pent up tears.

The fear that accompanies
almost everything I do
meanders like an ox-bow lake,
and can take years to settle at a flood-tide
to knock us off our feet,

It is then our time gathers
to a slippery greatness,
like the ooze of oil.

Threads of uncompleted hesitations,
tangled decades of revisions, 
some passing consolations,
always leave this bloody mess
of sense impressions.