Cold Ground

Cold ground.
Unmoving;
impossible.

Curving up into the
(but never quite reaching)
middle.

Squat asparagus sprout
of seed emerging;

the sun rides up the middle
like a little legged scorpion

everybody’s fingers a-waggling
saying “I’m not a teacher,
I’m a winner!”

schoolyard thirsts
portrayed by violent hand gestures
and boys running about rudely
through the bilge and gloom
that made up much of their daily lives.

Violets sprouting in every manner
of feeling; of tenderness;

frozen stream upends it all
coy camouflage of the bitter cold
heart (within you)

a stream of bumpers and chewed up papers looks like
Scattegories done at midnight by idiots or
rambling about ideas you wanted to remember
or the health care crisis or
the account billable digits…

no fear.
only internal
failure or a release valve
or something akin to a nightmare.

I like this place. the leaves smell
like pirates blessing their swords.

the knaves seem like
pointless people; they don’t
aim at anything but merely
points their guns.

here, there.
there, here.
& so on.