Every day after this world
is done with its preaching
we exhale and hand over
our stronger ties
unconscious and dilluted
whatever that might mean
or maybe not ever, sometimes
we hand over the anchor
of promising hope
for pursed lips
and white smiles
over glittering counters
we arrive still tied to the knot
of too many left hands
clutching an ankle in hunger
as the road winds down
all operations halted
by the executive board
since arrival comes too soon
and there were things
in the scrubland to begin with
so nothing is left to us
but to soak it down and surrender
for a dawn falling short
of yet another solo sunrise
say the word unshaven for me
facing another mirror,
say that daybreak has missed
its connecting flight
we do not know
every day
we do not know
some things are amiss
and neither of us quite dead yet.