@d-pend |Cold seeps in under the white door,
not made to insulate — nor fully isolate,
but maybe to defend from clumsy adversary,
provide temporary solace of delay
in which to contemplate the proper manner
to rebut the crude advance —
— of age.
Stacks of marked-up sheets,
work gone the way of amber:
red-shifting into obsolete domains.
Aside from me, beside me,
the evidence of chemistry
enacted on the scale of sentience — my coffee,
residue from ages, adorned grave with blooms,
various kinds of detritus — my memory:
— gone too soon.
words and macro photos by
created for HIVE on Oct. 19, 2020.
