(for the heavy gear — for the thing that reaches and never meets) --- my chest wears iron like an apology: bolts of old shame, straps threaded with nights I couldn't fix. i reach palms like signal-lamps through fog and something answers in the shape of a voice, a silhouette; my fingers pass through its promise as if through smoke. --- i keep assembling myself in the half-light, welding small hope to even smaller hope. each attempt is a parade that everyone watches from above they tilt their heads, count my seams, and look down. their pity glints like coins; it is colder than indifference. --- tired is the grammar i've learned: my ribs underline it, my jaw signs it, my shoulders translate it. i spend energy like credit with no receipt. maps redraw beneath my boots; every forward step folds back into the same polite contempt. --- so i practice tiny mercies: a warm cup cupped between both hands, the quiet homework of breathing, turning my face to light without asking for permission. i teach my hands how to be less useful — how to rest. --- rest is not the slapdash nap that wakes with guilt. rest is the slow unbolting: the screws that fall away and do not sting. it is a chair that asks for nothing, a shore that takes no inventory. it is peace that does not bargain, a closing door that is not defeat. --- if rest is an ending, let it be a gentle ledger: you were heavy. you were brave. you may now be soft. if rest is a place, make it wide enough for the fog and my gear; let it hold my weight without making sport of it. --- lay down the tools you wore to prove you were worth the trouble. let the palms finally close. let whatever reaches, reach. rest.....as peace, as sleep, as the mercy of letting go.