It's no wonder
I am hollowed out,
apple's core bitten
clean through,
even seeds' gone,
swallowed whole
but they are sprouting
in cavernous abdomens
to fruitless, ulcerous
crab trees.
This is what
the void plants:
the so much need &
yearning for so much
in poor soil
for something more
majestic than this
Even when
I close my eyes
& dream it all
in color, repeating,
remembering
all the thankless
routines of praising
false harvests
has me wishing
for blank,
soundless waves,
hill-less horizons
for
that's what it means
to be wise; it is to
forgive vulgar volcanoes
for acting out
their discontent
