In the way that the first, heavy drops of rain fall on a still bright windowpane,
Cracks in the floor, under the rug, where a connection with the process of entropy
is covered from view-
Craft, art, consumption, and the posy imaginings of blind, blue-gray rage,
Much of what is communicated is attention misplaced
between God and Man.
As rocks stretch from the ground to brush the heavens,
others imitate the process in reverse;
And who’s to decide which is the more spectacular or meaningful?
Our deep, rich loam, in a bowl
resting on a plate
on the flashing, slicing edge of this universe.