There is no welcome into
an easy gate no stride into
a paved bed of grain into
a vat of all heap.
Reap comes from a
wicked rotting log it crowds
all the compass roads you
have to go to and hollow
the rank gestation of
death to pass.
There are no exclamation
points at the end of tread
trails they only chaperone
the tired excavator.
I’ve noticed we like eating our seed-corn
our main course always right now
now is the moment I want to eat
and be fed
I don’t want to get full later
sowing kernels is long and the day
stretches out gray and un-new and
the ticking is laden a harsh waiting
room so I eat the seed now and
my inners grumble and speak to
me and tell me there is no other way
no other way
for me to get full on this seed alone
but the ground is fallow and my
breath burns early in
sardonic morning air how can I trust
this seed this
dry acrid speck— there is
there is One who says it will supply plenty
but how many empty minutes does
a person sit
with nothing
do fools wait— - but
I have no choice
I cannot be filled on seed alone
and so I bend
and kneel and I make
a tiny space to
cradle the mite
meager in all that I have to offer
I long to escape feeling
small
a glib glob of nothing
nothing to see
nothing to hear
here
Big. I want to be
Huge
fleeing indigence and landing
loud on echelons of ME.
Though, I once outside saw snow
faint
imperceptible flakes
nothing to see
nothing to hear
here
A humdrum hour passes— —
then heaps
still puny particles
falling yet mass
sheaths of sound-less snow.

THERE IS NO WELCOME

I DON'T WANT TO GET FULL LATER

ODE FOR THE SMALL