Solemn, wide-mouthed streets
       

wear a betrayed look.
When they're ravaged,
miserable people bury fistfuls of every loss.
Sweaty, unclenched palms work the familiar
dirt beds.

We drift
with dull melodies of weeks turning
over and over—a ringing
in our ears.

It's like this:

Even when we can't see it,
we stretch over ourselves
to touch,
to reach for a small piece
of the floating world.

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Copyright © 2013 Annmarie O’Connell All rights reserved
from Her Last Cup of Light
Aldrich Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission