the descent
it makes sense
grass is simple
as grass is green
and concrete is cold and hard
substratum is self-explanatory
and always
how it ought to be
and trumpets are for entrances
rice for becomings
silence for egresses
but his hands
are strange
how they close into fists
and how they blossom
for reasons not always apparent
the metacarpals
the phalanges the joints the tendons the veins
they are strange
and how they sabotage
his footing
to exist for the fall
and for the ground
rushing up to his face
he understands
the descent in every way
it's the catalyst
that perplexes
he knows
that he doesn't make sense
and he doesn't care
