The Cracks in This Fine Social Scene

Darkness hides
Sleep the fluttering wings of
circling bees.
A futile journey, so
you rise and walk
to make water
and boil it.

This, the motherland
the fatherland
the wooden floors
the plaster walls
the stuff that shifts around
like shadows.

There are cracks.
You can feel them as you trudge
from room to room.
But when the light comes up,
they are nowhere.

You smile at me
as we share a cup of coffee,
black, burning
my tongue,
but you drink anyway
and keep
smiling.

The drive to work
is littered
with errs.

Holstering the scales
of justice,
kept cocked in your head,
every step is weighed,
and every breath.

The dark-bowelled verbs
erupt,

Silent.

[Playing with Dylan Thomas’ “dark-vowelled birds,” this phrase popped into my head: “dark-bowelled verbs” and I immediately thought of those things we do that darken the world: conform, hate, and judge. We give ourselves up to the whims of the world unquestioningly. But there’s another layer to my poem: You and I are the same, we are both the judge and the witness, but until we become one in our thoughts, how can we change?
Also, the title of this post is taken from the Zero7 song.]