Maybe it wasn’t some great or tragic flaw.
It could have been just an occurrence
happening like a watchspring
come unsprung and deciding to dance.
Power comes from, rests and abides
with the old rotten Stonehenge figures
and grandfathers. You hear me say I love you
and any question of death rests
with the other laterlater thoughts.
Because it won’t, will it?
Happen here? It can’t, not yet.
Oh, there’s more of the pretty due us first.
We’ve been too long making do and hurting.
We’ve much more of the pretty due.
Past due. Pity us. Pretty us.
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