I
We wake up, are happy. Feeling on the verge of something that points a finger at that wall. There is possibility in our escaping from our eyes which floods the floor with fangs.
The type of variance that does not vary very much.
We eat our breakfast and then wait, whispering like gossips on the flank.
vi
We are met with a stark tragedy, of middling to climactic proportions.
There is a downward minor scope of ensconced defeat.
The end of our around and pulsing:
a prior like lacking.
IV
We rearrange our optimism for a fresh attack, held aloof, but only barely.
This new approach will work we know it.
But we’re still far enough away from our origins that it’s a totally different tone.
A reach for tactics arising.
V
And we hold out for our dominant return.
We say “but this time it will be different” or “tomorrow is another day”.
And yet: we think
oh, I’ve heard this song before.
[fade out]
