Intricate decisions dissolve in water.
Indecisions lead deeper into the labyrinth.
Poor passing facts longing for the grace of accuracy,
we race through night’s soft decline in the winter hills,
untroubled by the slow sediment of amnesia.
Sometimes we are threadbare,
then anything can feel like a blessing.
Time opens like a funnel,
your mouth fills with all the things you pray for,
all your prayers, leaping and leaping into the lonely heavens.