This thatch of letters,
an end, a start,
of moments aglow
of intricacies lost,
Both a restraint and comfort.

This careful weave
of intersection and underlap
pimped subtleties of intention
a sham diabolic,
a life determining.

And so we hotel,
Behind disconnected doors
Our square feet of belief
a map of slices and shadows
concentrics of doubt to trip and sunder.

Thatching these minor dioramas, 
Our isometric scrambles,
all untangle to the obvious,
a rearview of mistake and motive
Invisible until tomorrow.

This recurrence,
a freeway optimism beckoning,
girthed for certainty and destination,
Runs its race before twilight's smear
Its weight and its roar, an end, a start.