18

How long can I wait for something to change me. I have

loosened the lug nuts until the wheels rattle in their

sockets. I shimmy without rhythm.

There are poets hiding under ground, dog-eared cyphers

of root tangles and low frequency riddles hidden deeper

than I can feel. But my toes tingle.

Some sugared emblem stolen from a preachers dead eyed

daughter. The thorn still pricks my thumb. But it slides

easy into the form fitted leather. We both shoot

blanks this way.

A thousand, thousand spines broken in questioning. Ink

rubbed raw, pages bruised with insistence, fingers return

empty. There is no pattern recognition in the silence.

My eyes close in the spaces left

.