Poem 1/28/2005

Here's another recent poem:


"I can't help it,'
you say, and maybe
like the ground, you
can't: the walk-side loam, just
last week sopped with weirdly
vernal rains, now suddenly
ripples with frost-hard sinews
clenched against the chill, and
bunkered like a cave on steriods:
I step, expecting acquiescence of
a fragile mole-dome, but no:
"Just relax," I say, but
you insist on tension's destiny:
you and the ground both
ripped, until the time returns for
calm and crackling pliancy.

(c) 2005, P. Timothy Gierschick II

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