Static Force

by Renwick Berchild

Our hands have become limp.
I guess this is when the leaves fall off the trees.
The Cascade snow fills the reservoir for my home,
but night and day, all I hear about is our rain.

We’ll never run out; that’s what people say.
As though this is all growing on God’s right shoulder,
and God is infinite, like us.

I can’t say I am the greatest of human beings,
of the purest actions or heart. Yet I can notice
the unnerving muteness of the insect choir, the prints
building upon screens, light never dying.

We don’t grip things like we used to. Our fingers
have weakened, I am sure. When shaken
all our courage flakes off our sides,

so we’re living, I think. Sleep is for the dead,
and we’ll shun death with our every breath, bandage
our devices, swaddle these new children.
We are so awake. I can hear our stunned eyes.

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