santos scribes

the curling black wick of a tea candle, softened with time

and shiny gold threads leading me nowhere

it’s the cheap, blue pencil sharpener

whose blades give points to some

and chew deep divots in the rest

it’s rock stacks and dried flowers;

my god is it rock stacks & dried flowers

whose lines layer lines

whose shapes and far-fetched colors

lend presence and meaning to everything

it’s dull scissors that once, for awhile, were sharp

and that Michigander quarter I keep, just because

it’s “Celebrating You” and “You are Valued”

and it’s penance really, every last bit of it-

for letting things get by

forgetting the reply

forgetting even to count days

being so caught up in the living of them