to shapeshifters at the edge of the sky 

to shapeshifters at the edge of the sky

(a riff off a poem by my favorite living wordsmith, s. elsemore)
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this is not a poem about things that can be held, or not held
this is a poem for the girl at the party in a story,
who stared at the couples talking and thought
"i am neither a liquid or a solid"--

this is not a poem about things we can find along the road
everything's scattered now
there are poems about the proper places of things
held steady;
this is not one of those either

this is a poem for the mercury in us, trembling silver
things that both slide and break
things that regroup
but maybe leave
little little pieces behind

pieces that lie heavy at the edge of the sky