and bread. the rising substance. the gasses and demonstrating microbes pushing, climbing. i think of my derelict body alone on a sheet. a loaf of hope and bone, atom against atom. nothing left to love, nor hate. abandoned opinions. something finished.
in december
the days, they’re shortest,
skinless, surrounding the house,
drift wood barricade.
it’s spring, and now green
is on everything that stands
or spreads. starkness unraveling
under advancing elliptic and the hungry
thumbs of suburbia. microscopic
industries expanding the imperialism
of death and life.
home at the end
of winter. there’s a drafty passion in my ear. on the hairs of my neck. the weekdays and workends of reckless ownership wedging like moss in the joints of the twentieth century. built of chair web and laundry. hefty bags. bottled water. sink full of dishes with egg dried on. comfortable in this obscurity i pound fists to table say it’s always the last piece that completes the puzzle always cold as a megalith aligned north coincidentally marking equinox half buried in antique stumbling i make every day make sense and i make my pencils sharp make phone calls make the calendar a battleplan make up my mind a hundred times and a hundred times not admitting it’s the puzzle that completes the last piece at the end of winter in the sun’s ungraciousness my mouthful of acts condensed on glass counting consequences like beads
after work, freezing
under january’s chisel,
my tracks and walnuts
planted for the squirrel
that haunts the bird feeder
not serving my age
following the sky,
i am bound, a newsprint kite,
words and winds wrenching