STILL PROCESSING
Disquiet drops
A question mark
At the banquet
Table where
Overripe, hardened
Mellow and bruised
Fruit of the vine
Are gathered
I balance on its crest
Slide round into the hollow
Of its pause
Sit with it for a while
Listen to its lilt
And wonder
I, who so often
Jump flea-like to the
Period. Full. Stop.
Of closing affirmation
Is it I?
The ultimate betrayer?
Mud at the wall 