rounded
because we are
no longer rough around the edges

rounded
as we breathe in restless moments
waiting for life to unfold
in a ravishing symphony of chaos

rounded
in the terrible morning light
as we stare at grass
that is still wet
with the fading truth of night

rounded
as greedy trees
lean against
distressed and grey skies

rounded
as fat, impertinent birds
whisper day old songs
in the muggy september air

rounded
lying in wait
for a curse
and the harvest moon

rounded
like the magician
sitting with a black cat
directing cosmic traffic

rounded
like the edges of
tarot cards
revealing uncertain truths

rounded up, rounded down
rounded by logic
and passion’s crown

rounded
in a vulgar and insensitive world
exposed
and always offended

rounded
as the killers of the world
have finally gone soft

rounded
because sometimes
it’s bettered to be scarred
as we watch idle forms of death
loitering from a distance

rounded
as we wait with baited breath
to see what painful beasts
will be born
on the empty shores of tomorrow

rounded
around
this confused
pronoun

rounded
because sometimes
we are so alone
and love is so often
the last day of beauty