Monday, September 19, 2022


In the soup-
thick fog 
of early morning, 

the "next right thing"
might collide
with opportunity;

a cool, wet crow 
might swoop down
from a lamppost 

to make a poem 
of the worms 
she extracts 

without care
from the sopping 
ground below;

motions might 
well be the cause 
of themselves

and consequence 
might be their 
only purpose. 

In a world 
where reality 
looks so uncouth, 

might be ripe 
for the taking,

and there's 
nothing wrong 
with stealing it all

when nothing 
outside of ourselves