On the Rim

There’s a small pile
You can arrange
Of dust while you wait death,

And making small islands
You’re never excavating
While clouds concentrate on the rim

Rim of the sky you rim and
There are sad coats out there
And columns of shadows,

Through lawns at evening,
The sun at last shining,
We can stay until we have to go.
Until we we have to go we can stay.