Stumbling through another dull-knife day. The forever want
to turn off the haunt. And a prayer—hey, thanks—for calm
among all the wrong. Three vitrines heaped
with bones, a mosaic of beasts. Spandrels pierced
for light and air. I’m not asking merely such
and such, not for the sake. I’m grateful and ashamed
even as this trophy loneliness fades. No more bargain-bin
hallelujahs; no more feigned shapes. Simply, an awake.
And in this now, okay. A breath after underwater,
the heft of some good care.
Matt Anserello lives in Indianapolis, Indiana.