Sometimes, we forget to be terse. Sometimes
We just forget. We have been assembling
What we have collected every day for years
Now, and we have known ourselves to be
Lazy sometimes, sometimes greedy, and
Sometimes prone to extravagant display.
We have danced and stomped on our heaps
Of sweepings like children scattering raked leaves,
But we have also raked these leaves back up again,
And we have no desire to burn them. Change
Will consume them eventually, but for these
Moments as astronomical autumn is ending
And the local air sits as still as a predator in the trees,
Half-dead with hunger but patient, but calm,
Why not leave all these heaped up like haystacks,
Which makes them seem fewer, tidy, almost
Geometrical, designed, pyramidal, terse?
We promise at least one needle in every verse.
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