Formerly

Rapid, pounding out the
               news, betraying, yet keeping
                                                  pace with yours.  Beyond bruised, it's shockingly
                                                                                  still able.  If I
could,
I'd hurl it across the room-
at you.  It's yours, anyway and
          I'm through with it.
          I've outgrown it and it makes it
hard to walk - or talk.  Or breathe.  Not so rare.  But the
insistent rustle of whispers in the
curtains who saw it all still haunt this house, like the bells tolling with aurora, announcing the arrival
            of times past.  And the spasm which is each current moment
bursts to break it still,
                            little pieces of star. And it seemed once that I
would cease to live
but that
proved false.  The
       enigma of falling,
recurrent as
            the clench of seasons and so take flight,
            these feathered believers as clouds first blush then give way to an
                       again spacious sky.

The Sunday Whirl