The bottom of the page

When everything that is done
ends
with a bruised hand,
stacks of empty bottles
and the bottom of a page.

An argument lays down
so that something else can blossom
as we climb in to bed
at the bottom of the page.

Something as simple as watching them
do the things you skipped past
for better or worse
make it all better
when every notable character trait
is a pushing force,
taking the left hand closer
to the bottom of the page.

It’s the only reason we begin;
the sole importance,
as the days weep
and the evenings laugh
along
with the clowns.
It all comes together
as the birds sing in unison
with our self-satisfaction
at the bottom of the page.