the moss at the edge of the stairs
the light at the edge of my eyes
the sonic boom of business falls, envelops, lingers
the missing bench at the edge of the path
the missing return of hello
the impatient, desperate desecration of trees
the gentle waves at the edge of the lake
the patient mountain at the edge of town
the doubt in me: must i write, here, at the edge of completeness?
do i desecrate each moment out of habit?
out of a deep drive for business?
i tell myself to write briefly, to love, too,
the gentle waves of thought, and to leave something behind
to turn to when i have turned myself around
on this edge