with the weight if the,
well maybe 'wait',
of the tin trays upon my chest i can
feel my valves heal.
i can hear them heal.
a stiller beat, fit for the
diving of a pond
where i may take frog,
or snipe
if a city boy is around.
i woke up and when i looked upon the oak mats
i saw the colors of a water washed canvas cry out
like it was far from
the source of its wetness.
they peeled and spit
and curled and coughed
and a glowing ember came between my knees
and held high by the sun of masturbatory ancient dreams,
it grew to flame.
now i am no longer alone
and my peaceful anger i kept as a weeping
thrush,
a splint to lay my worry against,
a crutch i used for the broken
ankles of unhappiness,
it has melted and joined the ranks
and denizens of the forgotten ice station.
they sit in the ground,
astute,
with their ears pressed against clay-rich soil
carrying on in anxiety,
wishing and 'counting beads'
that i may change my prayer.
that this which i have lied about searching for shall end.
that love shall no longer awaken within me
and that the past will blossom.

i have poured salt and boiled vinegar on that
spoiled soil.
now is the time to dig into fresh earth.