Like an old man on the bus with his flowers
past the darkness yet still 
the things we do 
not
more than you
hoarding our ordinariness
until we are comatose

It wasn't time to die 
and so we lived
a shared epiphany 
taking in
through these small eyes

Othertimes we wake
ground to the dusty dirt like scarified seed
waiting

watching ripples the water 
smooth flat

A late summation 
for only half the people 
as if
they are facts.