The chiming of bells is all that is left
where there was previously an orchestra
and the lack of light hours makes me
weaker. A tray of cold food and a mantra,
sung, is how I greet each sunset. De-caffeinated,
with a head that throbs as you tap fingers.
I’m digging a hole in sinking sand but
the dream of smothering silt still lingers.
Feathered sacks are a temporary lull in
the proceedings that I call “home.”
Fall, with arms aloft and eyes stuck shut,
into the evergreen, burgeoning gloam.