i'm wondering when that day will open,
a briefly unhinged gesture of hand -
hope - solace, even a touch - benevolence..
grasped in a decipherable language heard on
withheld pretense.

court within grasp-able means,
the hands that hold only the measurable
perceptive truth ; ;
wear the waxing days as a badge,
resilience to pestilence through vaccinations
and voids and despair.

wavering hope travels in whispers,
remains in a breadbasketexplosion.
something to dine on during solitary lakeside strolls,
and feast on in the festering nights.

and many more nights to come,
body intact, impulses resounding,
only a call away amounts to only a day from deliverance,
and one more day remains until the next,
where you can forget having to remember.

and these are the days we are to remember as being wonderful.