Below the Rim

The argument rose,

a tide, too high,

too many voices chose

to ask, to try, or just deny.

I bent down low,

a dropped napkin's silent plea.

Below, the dust began to show,

a strange, dim topography.

Rough wood, unfinished grain,

a dark, forgotten space.

Gum, flattened, a tired stain,

a sticky, lost trace.

Cobwebs, fine threads,

strung between the beams,

catching light from distant heads,

lost in their louder dreams.

The muffled thud

of feet, a distant, heavy call.

Here, in the under-mud,

I could breathe, after all.