turning

 

i was staring, the elements deterred me

and in the oblong court i heard children

their voices uncontrolled and episodic

were lost within the echoing space

it was a spot that i held, transfixed

as if mutiny were a look i barred my soul

and defended the slightest whim with

the focus of a final look, bruised look

i wonder what a look does that stems

the finest from their goals, i resound here

and there are no hallelujahs, just the stare

and the start of a sobbing, the children again

and then no, they seem to have gone

and i am no more than a turning, i start