cushion.
she sat offering a second
helping of a small thought grown large.
the atmosphere in the enclosure
seemed to gain electric current.
conversation turned to blasphemy
laced with a wish to finish
with the present tense.
some of us were comfortable, we told
the others. it was nice to sit
on something firm, with purpose
and without.
the room was not her room
but we belonged. opened its
shape she left home breathing,
and we notified ourselves this was
a contest. or the finish line
had come.
would comfort curse success against
our grain. how would conformity
change operatic symptoms?
who was there to listen, who
would speak or sing.
the moment would break open
into other moments all called now.
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