A Slowest Sort of Being

A rough, rich poem written in half an hour.
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I suppose I should start with you
Hunched and eyes down,
Or forward and focused into squares edging in nothing
I suppose I haven’t seen you in a while
And halfheartedly looking, waiting.
Until you come here
To take us home.

Can I seek you, anything new at all?
Rapid eye moving toward that flutter of bright
But if I can find you there,
I can haul you up to the sullen place
To the heavy place
And where I walk and search and plod
Amidst those happy flickers
You can lead me home.

There were so many faces of inspiration
Where and who beloved
Reflected inside here,
Giving off a bit of shine for this leaf
It was that much brighter for not being there yet
For never having been there before.

And what has it come to now,
the leading up to fading?
The acquiring acquiescence?
This dullness, those dusty mirrors
degraded long before they could incite a fire in the cold dark.
And I am here still
though smaller sort of i
haven’t moved the world round
And whisper rough
As the world rounds me through light and dark
Come home