An idle infection —
the cyclical skewed
as we look for those continuities that sustain us.
Are your sins of omission dishonest,
after all?
It’s hard to wake when the season sings sleep.
I would settle for the truth of it,
now.
If only you could own your part.
I don’t tend toward irrationality.
And the illusion of it formed by this half-truth
is a weight.
looking for roots 