Does it Matter

Does it matter. The evening is spent.
A clutter that does not want any sort
of order. A rocking chair

and no wind, no one. Instead a creak
waits, suffers. Nobody.
And freely the arc

sits still upon this contact point.
We can agree on some kind
of settlement. Why bother

the rust. It has the color
of copper. Day restores
the swing. In

capacity a shelter. In strain
the line learns taut,
gains momentum, speeds up

into population. Begin with
a raindrop. Pursue it
with commotion. Share

teeming under exposure. For now
a teeter, dew on a leaf:
Light too-present to neglect

that slope. Stark like a cup,
a cling. How frail the stalk must feel
against all this breaking.