What happens to the heavy overhang?

      The ache that will not house itself and tips

into the guiltless day? The parrots, white

      and muscular, can’t grip it as they swoop.

They cannot carry it away. We talked,

      and talk is structure, yes? A build that bears

a life? Our life? But, no, the mood, the wretched

      mood escapes the feeble frame of speech.

I reach the edge of the escarpment now.

      Great resting, ragged rocks protrude, replete

with form. Up close the clay is like stacked sheets;

      earth books with pages immanent, divine.

The parts of us that have no place are loaned

      a dwelling here, all held and hanging on.