Black obsidian in salt
Today the earth is fickle and purposeful
I drive – no,
I ride with myself. Summer drums a skull
to hard rock
I hear it whispering about hostages
and what the subconscious can’t unlock
Two gladiolas cut from the grass
on a kitchen island took root in glass
before they droop it’s their last chance
its captivity captivating me
only by the mere shrewdness if not circumstance
feeling the seasons changing
me
less at first glance and then more
Tonight
the breeze hosts an insect dance
their vital mission
while inside my mind love becomes the villain
I count the wings from six to six trillion
tilt the jilted vision until I can see it different
I rub salt on the black obsidian
and see the ending first:
how the seeds came down, tumbling back toward the earth
and how the ground opened its mouth and erased them –
how down, deep down in that dark ground’s the antidote
how the gladiolas died holding one another
or maybe reaching for each other’s throats
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