They look back at themselves
thinking they will see
something more but never do,
they are still the same.
We are the modern harvesters
picking turds out of the grass, bits
of glass that could be made into
something, some day.
Who would hang on
to the frail edge of belief for so long
with nothing to go on,
but this?
William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose. 
