Always a worn down gear:
The cogs grind-
Their teeth chatter
Missing each other
On the edge of a steep slope,
And those in arms’ reach
Wait to see what I do at the summit-
Soar, or more likely plummet-
Debris scattered along the beach.
Palms in the air, Pilate’s hands washed clean,
No one is responsible for the other:
Push on, push on, push farther in-
Never slow down, never stop again-
No keeper keeps his brother.
We throw our alms at each other,
But we’ve forgotten how to invest:
To rest together, to break bread,
To struggle in-arm, to bury the dead,
To pick each other up, breast to breast
We don’t wear each other’s mud.
We don’t bear each other’s load.
We cheer, we goad, we disappear
Somewhere along the road.