Post-Probity

After dividing the sabliere

and after the outliers roll away,

disappear,

or sit like a thrombus between two fingers,

will there be enough in the day

for you to watch the sun sag

into its everyday tomb,

to listen to the sagittal sigh

of a passing evening,

to eat the last fruits of a wounded innocence

dashed against the scree of summer?

Or will you nurse your closed fists

and cry

that the pearl hurt you so?

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Trying my hand at poetry. I'm always a dabbler, never a denizen. This one's a warning to myself.

This is unpublished.

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