And she gobbled on about
Some old-style sayer of sooths
Who prophecied this moment
As an end
Which brought up talk of calendars,
How to fit the facets false
Into our ordinariness.
We didn't resolve that either.
It's touchy like that,
To tell and not draw contact.
Still, the place we meet
Makes us crystal,
Collected as identity,
The need to let it go
Now that there's a breeze.
