Friday, August 12, 2022


This one's addressed 
just to you, 
lukewarm reader,

even though we 
seldom understand 
one another—

let this poem stand 
as a prayer's 
humble opposite:

no hyperbolic paean 
to what's hopeless-
ly beyond us;

just a few mealy words 
to keep you screwed 
to the earth—

its fermented treasure 
troves of dirt, 

apple groves 
and honey bee 

May its aim curve 
away from complexities 
like god, 

and instead, curl in tight 
toward a charm 
that can't be lost,

toward all of those 
guiltless and selfsame 
and clean

quarks and 
electrons, which spin 
and invent us.