Clapping Wayside Norm 

It’s hopeless to try when things like that become the norm. Summer stops and winter tops, never to find it again. No matter how far you look, there’s always more. The stops and starts and the walks in the park, all going without a clue. Bright meadows and false loops, steadily careening into a new year: heavy-handed at the tremors, wishing and bearing fruit despite the distance gone. Shambles clap up and shine, walking on false starts. Thereabouts it doesn’t matter what goes wrong, when it’s all neglected. Sloppy justice does some of it, while others clap off and try again another time. Bones upon bones and hunger, always the hunger and thirst. Sleights of hand sometimes arise out of nothing, when they dance and chance upon the wall. Thoughts go into thimbles and cave in, happy as can be. Rotting on the shorelines without a doubt, sitting in a stuffy library and trying to find a way. Tired without a cause? Loose-fed on the blankets, grinding it out. Who cares when there’s nothing in the air? No momentum, no shimmer, no bliss. Huge branches sway and clap hands with the pond by the wayside, hoping for the best.