we talk in fragments
half disjointed wispy things
with more connection
sometimes
than we think
and sometimes less
we move in awkward gangling
unsure, unsafe, unready
from the moment past
to moments yet to come
and yet undress
and yet still trust
and somehow still pretend
that all the reasons to be cheerful
are not mucus sodden rags
and so
in happy paradox
successful self-delusion
muddle through
no worse
no better
for all seasons
for all time
Little Flower Book by Wayne Myers