Six Months of Wednesdays

Here is my faraway focus.
Here are my barren tripod marks.

Here I prop my lenses again.
Here I try again, once again.

It’s been more than twelve hundred days
More of doing this since flesh crawled,

Literally dragged awareness out
Of half-frozen muck at lake’s edge,

Which is one frame for perspective.
There are too many other frames

To count, so let’s count this one. Now,
A life sits perched, still on the verge,

As always, of the next big break,
The next fall and fracture, the next

Impasse of flesh, breath, and failure.
The finches are whistling madly

For all things important to them,
And the rumble of commuters

Hovers over the unseen road,
And it’s spring, and the grass is green,

And you, dearest, only reader,
Must still be living, as you read.