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 pencils

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-reaching 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”

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

for letting things get by

and forgetting to reply

for forgetting to count days even

being entranced in the living of them