Oncore Oncore

It is a day of held back skies,

of skies restrained and waiting.

A day the clouds hold conference

and dance around a sun-caught moon.

No one seems to notice

or if they do they have the wherewithal

to storm the gates of morning

twice swaddled in last night's dreams.

Some people say they never dream.

They insist their dreams are things

of skin clad situations,

that they are pros at thinking them alive.



I see a man pushing

a wheelbarrow of pillows,

filling his calendar

with impossible appointments,

impossible alliances with those

seeking respite for thought.

Not realizing that at the end

of his supply he will be more wearied

than those to which he gives relief.



Now is now.

The clouds cease deliberation.

Recess is now a reconvention.

The sky loves earth with rain.

Earth loves sky, blooming the world,

splaying endeavor, dissecting work,

spending all that isn't fear.


Nothing is greater than its telling.

Courage redeems the secrets.

Canyons gape. Rivers flood.

The sea can't sit its stand.

Oncore. Oncore.

We spill ourselves to filling.