Thank you Sanctuary magazine for including my latest untitled poem in this month’s issue!
If it’s just one meeting
or just one hour
Just one assignment
Just one correction
If it’s just one more minute
or morsel to chew
If it’s just one more,
the machine is irrelevant
and the product is you.
There’s a breeze in the air
and big flowering bushes are taking over the sidewalks
much to everyone’s glee,
as they peruse the outdoor menus and those windows-full of over priced, raw cotton caftans.
Normal June, plain-old-tourist town. Nothing has changed as the season rolls in.
The world is churned-out, wobbling on its axis. We’re dizzied by death and think pieces.
But the breeze in the Berkshires still blows.
Breaking down the ash and rock
existing now just to hinder and trip.
With a pick, with an axe, with a torch —
Laying at the table the practical,
pulling from grey matter fantastical;
switching the spoils from hand to hand,
weighing, comparing, flinging over the fence
little flecks, little specks, the occasional bright bauble
in an effort to winnow, to burrow, and strike.