Silting

I bite my nails and bide my time and no amount  

of patience can measure the seconds it takes to 

 

memorize the DNA of severed moments and 

circumstance. Laying down your life is being a 

 

bridge; fall and you’re a coincidence. I use my 

own honey to splash in my tea at the coffee shop 

 

because paying extra for convenience isn’t as 

sweet to me as saving for a flavorless rainy day,

 

though I’ve yet to work out the kinks concerning 

the stirring and the settling—the way to dilute 

 

the sediment from the sentiment. You can’t 

learn anything that begins with geo until you 

 

understand the gravitational pull of stillness.

The Bible study group across from me talks 

 

about God’s timing vs. our earthly desires and 

I pause stirring my drink to examine my cuticles,

 

noting how often the bend betrays intent, my 

hands displayed before me like drifting continents.