The Edge

The sun has almost dissolved
into orange turning night
and lights gain strength, giant
steps adorning the street;
door mice nailed to
house fronts; bronze burning out
of window’s mouths.  We are
shadows on the deck, a small
arm of the shadow army occupying
back yard, driftwood on
patio, dark wine darkened deeper
in frail crystal.  The argument
with too much strength has almost
played itself out and decisions made
so long ago are again
undecided, stretched, tortured
on the rack of present, risk
rank with the fury of
all the deaths which never arrived
on the eight o’clock morning
train and those which snuck in,
door to door salesmen swinging
scythes, slicing through
the flowers of the next minute —
so, let us begin again and sing
the disharmonious songs of our children.