In my belly a bowl of constriction, of awakening to inevitable grief In my palm a rest for breath but what is it that brings anger to the market puts knives in our pockets when we cross paths, when death reminds us we are mortal and we scissor up instead of fall to our knees landscape of sharp rocks One's stances are prompted by old film footage, or for another, softer song of river naps and stars to protect her from what is incoming at night. The edge of the seat of unforgiveness is wearing away. T he grain of the true old wood visible. No splinters but of little support when holding so tightly to inextinguishable righteousness. Out of place. Yet default.