Solvent

The illusion of work and wages –
A thing that is had
Or needs to be,
A thing between the fear
And a hope that hangs me.

I’ve drowned like timber standing
Of a tactile worry –
The slow saturation of my children’s eyes.

I’ve ignited the prospect, the possible,
The potential – again and again –
To push back that horizon,
An end that I cannot admit or speak.