In the attic, alone, it seems by James Diaz

If I am speaking poorly,
why blame the speech?
Maybe it is only the exhaustion that I can give,
tags of insignificance
from the up-turned drawer.

Finding only autumnal renditions,
a circle stone where the rain sleeps,
has slept, that rain,
and underlines it’s own indelible tracing
to and back and again
against the only thing that matters-
the speaking, maybe.

Finding, believing sadness,
even to elsewhere-
the navigated yet risky altitude,
our bodies filtering rest on borrowed breathing.

Field or feather, even fleshy pawn,
I know how you got there,
and I remember the surprise,
the human humble jolt,
when you first turn around.

Faith is moving on, unfed,
glued to a route that only loosely remembers digestion,
the conservation of the shadows form,
hindered, then transformed at birth,
and for a long time after.


Published by

Jeremiah Walton

Jeremiah Walton is wary of writing a bio.

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