Outside this wire, the wandering rook can’t stage his relief. It isn’t his.

Outside where there may stand slender lengths of tubing reaching all the way to the sky.

And they may walk, and they may shoot fretful notions from their eyeholes and intertwine somehow when they get too close. That is a thing, for sure. It is beneficial to the construct as its whole.

But the Pilgrim, the Everneeder, he doesn’t wake this morning or for many to come.

He is like the bit of wrapping foil which hangs to the candy and won’t come off.

In gothic, lighted hallways with vaulted ceilings, that’s where he stays.

He is Irishing, even though he walks in too hot sun with the swaying, taut idea that this thing- this bottled up day has its own glory, has some mindful diploma to award… it is anger.

Hate for his fuel, and sidework.

Every wise or comforting thing can run away, and sometimes takes other things, important things with it.

The pomegranate orchards, they were brown in last Autumn’s sun. And he was meeting such interesting people.

We are seldom a very mindful lot, and even that skitters through the dust and over rocks, dragged around by ego unanswered.

But inside, oh Johnny, inside walks when it will and stretches like a cat after nap.

Inside scratches itches and takes no water when it isn’t thirsty.
It is akin to reminding yourself, amongst ornery wolf cubs, that you are still naked beneath your clothes.

Getting his share of sunlight on his bones through ribs of dust that float in clouds on the wind.

Nobody walks as fast as this one. Nobody.

He is a pacer. He is a rook and a pacer and exception- forward class but not fast enough to get outside.

It’s gonna be ok, buddy. We’ll watch after what you need.