The disease in my brain is against all
this joy! A Blackball Grumbler who sculpts; Brute
hands. I am clay.
Morning. Beauty bows before me as I adapt
to sun luster. My feet go dancing
through crush puddles, smiling
at Emily’s “thing with feathers”.
I have been seized by desire, lacking nothing
A free life will make nothing of
space for flies….
and the flies are swarming in;
Oh God, My Air!
Inhale. Fly wings. Pinions of
I choke on despair. Discouragement
wrapping Brute hands
around my skinny neck.
Last night, I met Concord on
a front porch. We knelt together
as if flies never existed.
But, it is today. Every last
night, on front porch kneeling,
is outlived by the sunlight
flies to the Blackball Grumbler.