Light the Fuse and Wait

An applecart of half-eaten ideas pushed into sight by heavyweight ghosts. Wormwood and cider the aroma of root beer in a lit-up air. The poet pauses….judges the hunger of his next line to fulfill the wishes of finger-following gods. Orchard trees separate, bow out of the crowd to stand alone in the spaces between the words. Sandalwood is harvested for the coming cremation, the fire tongs are white hot as they pluck burning fruit out of the furnace of an Archean Ur where the charred apples find grazing mouths Nature mulches in the churning now the apple is in the maggot ready to sour or delight. Wool gathering shepherds guide their flocks from the pulverizing organs of creation into valleys of dark and light.