ONE

There is no welcome into an easy gate no stride into a paved bed of grain into a vat of all heap. Reap comes from a wicked rotting log it crowds all the compass roads you have to go to and hollow the rank gestation of death to pass. There are no exclamation points at the end of tread trails.

There is no welcome into an easy gate no stride into a paved bed of grain into a vat of all heap. Reap comes from a wicked rotting log it crowds all the compass roads you have to go to and hollow the rank gestation of death to pass. There are no exclamation points at the end of tread trails.

  • There is no welcome into

    an easy gate no stride into

    a paved bed of grain into

    a vat of all heap.

    Reap comes from a

    wicked rotting log it crowds

    all the compass roads you

    have to go to and hollow

    the rank gestation of

    death to pass.

    There are no exclamation

    points at the end of tread

    trails they only chaperone

    the tired excavator.

  • I’ve noticed we like eating our seed-corn

    our main course always right now

    now is the moment I want to eat

    and be fed

    I don’t want to get full later

    sowing kernels is long and the day

    stretches out gray and un-new and

    the ticking is laden a harsh waiting

    room so I eat the seed now and

    my inners grumble and speak to

    me and tell me there is no other way

    no other way

    for me to get full on this seed alone

    but the ground is fallow and my

    breath burns early in

    sardonic morning air how can I trust

    this seed this

    dry acrid speck— there is

    there is One who says it will supply plenty

    but how many empty minutes does

    a person sit

    with nothing

    do fools wait— - but

    I have no choice

    I cannot be filled on seed alone

    and so I bend

    and kneel and I make

    a tiny space to

    cradle the mite

    meager in all that I have to offer

  • I long to escape feeling

    small

    a glib glob of nothing

    nothing to see

    nothing to hear

    here

    Big. I want to be

    Huge

    fleeing indigence and landing

    loud on echelons of ME.

    Though, I once outside saw snow

    faint

    imperceptible flakes

    nothing to see

    nothing to hear

    here

    A humdrum hour passes— —

    then heaps

    still puny particles

    falling yet mass

    sheaths of sound-less snow.

Photo by Carly R. Red

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