Antigone and the sharp sticks...

photo by EJR ©

being afforded by oceans is loving you/ paper hearts and poem

though I am sure if I hadn’t said nor wrote about unlocking boxes plow to seed/ speeds and the loam/ we would still be bound to the ritual tourniquets of deciduous seasons/ their upside umbrella-ing of the rain/ cup after cup, a thirst that knows no boundary or calendar, pretty pictures of not

we’re told we’re their ghost stories inheriting our very own long bow soul gesture indications by articulate bone, skin and flesh/ wings are auxiliary features though and cost extra/ most of us abstain from the payment by pitching camp near the comforts of lemming cliffs fully stocked for falling with our recreations and re-creations/ how much pleasure turns us all saint to sinner

a crackle or two from our fire intermingles with the salt air abyss, the fog is velvet ropes and curtains pulled back and forth by appropriate approximations of scene/ a tide choral background music pilfers our attention beneath a near new moon shrouded little yellow star/ our exhales are trawl net caught by observant trees lapping the gas exchange/ sentinel swell-spilling formations into timeless movements/ digging by the roots and clemency for our dramas and comedies/ we hear directions in the reach of clouds flooding our lowest points we can balance life by as the barrel size we’re fitted with doesn’t come with holes for our eyes

EJR ©