This, a doorframe
Life, in a way, a headrush of becoming. Born
happens on repeat. Back to camp!
Wits to spare. Today’s harvest: wild garlic.
A stream between rainfall.
No movement, simply being.
No matter.
Among the dying
embers I keep company
with the great ghost:
grandma, god.
~
This, a doorframe into
the dark and deep — a great
distance for a Missouri museum.
Once again falling sway to Rothko’s
mesmerism, disregarding the rusted
hinges.