In a needlessly plowed field you sense
pressure from beneath the surface, a
gnawing gust of air trading
fistfuls of heat between
blindness and death,
pouring honey into the
cracks of the elders’ faces.
You take your helpings,
hoisting energy from the soil,
setting it free,
forcing planets to
dip their peaks toward this
impossibly singular spoke on our
universe’s ferris wheel.
Every place and every
spread of wasted frosting fills the
mumbling phenomenon.
You see private conversations of
especially brutal despot weed their way through
jump-rope jingles of unpunished childhoods.
That conversation settles for itself,
failing in its potential,
shrinking to a blushing hobo,
vanishing with unread fluster under
mountains of rotted print.