Bump the shoulder graze
The arm swung past
The ebony mass cascading the back.
The foot at the foot of your foot
In the metro.
How much of us is true? We are just
A little more than simple, uncomplicated,
Quavering masses of energy unprocessed
We tremble in the way of the known unknown.
The futures forgotten when pasts replete
With baggage we do not have the strength to carry.
