What Beauty Exists

that breaks the bonds between
a cup of coffee in the morning
and a reason to write.

Tv’s tuned to American Idol.
You’re told to be one of a kind,
yet slammed for trying.

I wonder where the ships moor
before accepting passengers
for Byzantium. For Wroxeter.

Who watches for the tide
to turn; that moment when
time flows out to the new?

Do gunshots announce it–
hopscotch death racing
main street? Juiced car.

The edge, the edge, always
the edge. Just before
the mortality count.

This is a matter of how we
live in the void and try
to fill it with pieces of what we are.

And protect that, no matter what.