When I repurpose them,
feelings start flaking off like sparks in a coal mine

immersed in echoes, furies turn little by little
into leprechauns of wistful absence
and then into humans of interludes

I should be trying to draw my own mandala in dirty debris sand
but gravity keeps pushing me through a slim incandescent hourglass
turning nonsensical particles into a mirror glass sheet
that is definitely not bland

I guess this means there’s no upcycling to my attitude
bathing in silence is not something I can preclude