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| painting by Larry Carlson © |
in an
Edgar Cayce wind
the
scoured future
is
quick soft
lead
pencils
to
pages turning
anomalous
wheels
handed
ordinal directions
we
cross arms in trees
a
leafless mathematics
meant
for the eyes
and
nose
we
brave the cold
and
dark
of
Winter nearing
the
tongued erode
scents
our sense
of
community
as
we hold
the
valley rain
keeping
the snow
at
bay
we
scratch walls
with
our names
tying
humanity
to
whatever
safe
harbor
secures
our moorings
through
tomorrow morning
the
belly clouds
kite
the ground
in
damp embrace
and
another day
races
memory to fire
as
we huddle
through
things
out
of our control
America,
is outside
the
glass
a
bio-metric scan
a pointed gun
a
nation of foxholes
with
a neon
bookie
conscience
selling
us
paper
dimensions
so
each night
we
pray for
plums
and pillage
a ride out
against
the storm
of
modernity
smooth
pieces
of
grace
pocket hope
into the empty
where
there
was
once gold
our
palms
are
held out
above
our heads
full
of stars
pulling
on
the
Dawn
EJR
©
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