We unfold into the embrace
of the freshly bitter,
calluses commencing to cease
our cumbersome ache:
a reminder of the recent
hammer on the anvil,
as the colloquy ends.
We toil in our optionless periphery,
the seclusion between the mill and smithy,
find that the frogs engage
in the unspeakably antagonistic:
a war raging in cafes and boulangeries.
The moon races past the clouds,
clouds racing past the moon.
Gratitude for a love so substantial
it’s willing to fret over a minute
fear of touch.
Frequenting the mantras,
competing with remission.
In a race to the forge,
we quickly hesitate
...Ed Casey is a musician, poet, guitar salesman, and quantum physics maven who hails from El Paso, Texas.