dizzards

Whether pails still hold milk,
apostates push new carts of books
where contrarians gather, palsied,
fidgeting on the broken shell.
But beneath, bleeding within the walls
Like paint dripping down watercolor paper,
lines made last. Their edges remain crisp
in repetition of similar stories,
no difference between once or often.

So empty these documents,
each that adds space. Inside will be
the closing-in of walls, not a stretched
spirit longer, wider, retaining
the cracks we fall in, expanding the surface,
cliffs that appear to energy blunted.
Horizons continually follow without trouble
suggestions poured at noon, and swallow
their influence, spreading out a place
for grey panic to take care,
her problems too seriously.