Quietude

Flared bolts

of white dressing and trim

gathered round

a single palm.

The fallen

the broken

the already-done, exhausted milieu

washed out,

perhaps wiped out--it's of no consequence,

what cares hindsight of intention?

The eye seeks not the could-be but the is.

Sunken keys

lost in briny grey

strings and hammers

still bobbing--yet disembodied.

A semblence of quietude