The Periphery of Stupor

July 20, 2005

A minute pebble
wedges itself
between foot and shoe,
slicing through veins
that ripple into
a resignation.
Steps fluctuate across
faded pedestrian lanes,
beginning with a futile glance
(in the wrong direction)
for cars that are as alien
as the disembodied voices
on the other end of the line.
Nights are littered
with question marks
and mornings
are merely commas
punctuating sunsets.

At 4 a.m.
there are no buses yet
that will bring me home.
I have seen hues of blue
that I never thought existed.
But wonder never left
the delayed surprise
(that it can still be felt)
at the slight discomfort
from the insistent
grain of stone.
Every craned neck
is hope gained then lost
with each hint
of a headlight
collapsing as it reached
my line of vision.
And the way a pebble
becomes a well of sensation,
waiting
becomes a thread
unconsciously woven
to illusions of open arms.

blue rogue