JUST

Nothing,
arms out, heart up, eyes wide.
Without,
hunched over, hands on knees, brine breathed,
drenched in tiredness,
swallowed in moments
of coursing, lining, threading through.
Two typed, too tired,
salted and pickled and spat back out.

It was dug from the ground.
From a hole in the cacophony.
Hold it for a moment!
Twisting in the air,
It says that it doesn't matter.
But it was not looked for, for that.

But for the hard, low, bloody minded reckoning;
Sticking down a marker;
Sticking it to ourselves;
Sticking to something.
Something.
Hold-fast, Steadfast, no matter how fast.
Tearing at soul and limb,
for the nothing that is doing,
except what was brought to it.

Just
turning stumble to skip,
burden to journey.
Jester for no court.
Pilgrim to no end.

In the long run,
we lie in this ground,
so on the long run,
we dance on it.
Gleeful engravened lives,
Lived out momentarily,
on barbed shards and moulded domes.

These pikes the lookouts
from where it was seen.
These ghylls the fissures
Through which it breathes.

And all importance disregarded,
Went for it, gave it, willed it, held it,
lost to pointlessness with enpurposed delight.
Sharpened to the cleaving,
for joy, for something.

A calmness from the mattering