Monday, August 15, 2022


If our feelings were the rocks 
which used to litter 
ancient cliffs, 

and our needs
were the bellies
of enormous pack animals, 

than the very first
decent snatch 
of poetry on earth 

was a blunt, bulky 
hand ax, chiseled gracelessly 
from flint.

More contemporary examples 
of the art, such 
as this

may come across 
like the polished 
obsidian tip

of an arrow 
aimed straight at some
more modern creature, 

but either way, 
the outcome 
is the same: 

an uncouth attack,
made in desperation
on its heart—

which, now,
as back then, is a sack 
filled with rocks.