The practice of warmth.

Give this clumsy arm credit.

As it extends beyond the common grasp

A new energy is born:

Such hands like this arm are like worn and other hands--

Their credits fumble and divulge their worth.

The practice of waiting.

What a specifically human headache it is for each to look past the savage

Leaves,

When the savage leaves are still speaking.

Stop for one voice. Now wait for the next.

With as much of the senses it is a hardening practice, with it too

It is a formulation of the soul.

June is so early, now.

Just before drowsiness sets in, and

Each guest is like every

Other guest, they go furtive, and rest.

Paths go as they have always gone,

And to the others less familiar and nefarious

paths curtly crest--

To the right fork their pinked wishes--

To the left their wittled, if unrecognized best.