This balm of sun
triangling through the window
making arrows that say go,
walk into the random
among the animals of reflex,
where true is defined by try
and the vellum ropes unbind.

The Sunday sombreness
of all the world a morning splinter
never shifted to a clarity
of no day weighs more
than what I will allow,
an insolence
I can only carry with a discount.

But some mercy perhaps
for an unbeliever
trying for faith
in this chimera of days,
the reassurance of lightning
less deliverance than mechanics,
More bark than fight.

I swam under a ceiling of fractal life
past beauty and riot
when even the fury was an incandescent
I could not see.
This practice of a breath withheld
the careful conscious of pregnant hours
a dismaying vellum, so easily bound.