zafusy

Even under lens their piles aligned
to the larger idea of some fool’s mask. Scattered,
hare and hole, enough rent their own to stand down a cloaked dove.

More and more were timid stone
and most captained their own wilt, like the heat might
any sturdy green. So we have a pile of ungems, brailling their way across

flows murked into what used to be.
Hold out the tightnets, brothers. See what catch
you’ve made of these hovelers. Unless and until, unless and until,

they will outgain through four
and throw caution like a hurling stick no one
with any growl would dare fetch. We’ve turned them daisy and nothing

roused under the question, backsides
red with slap the recoil enough for a Grade 6 blush
while our own peddlers whistle peace into false caverns we merge with.

Scott Hartwich

View all poems by Scott Hartwich