that which sprung from soil, we turn to our bodies
made of oceans mad, which flung earth
out of star spit, drinking candles yes we are
tallow and the mortal tick, clocking illusion,
that which blooms of silence, we keep in jars
lidless and in search of a time, which seals the seventh
and becomes an octave, or sweet dissonance,
wicking up the brine of prehistory.
that which has no presence, we wrap in re-gifted
martyrs, eggs of ideas hard chiseled,
unable to make anything as beautiful as a child
or a seedling, or a stupid poem.
solstice 12-21-19
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