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.
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