A Portcullis Lowers, Days Dissolve


Written by Randy W. Plym


a portcullis lowers, days dissolve

into white journal pages, like sugar

in grandma’s tea.


the calendar is a sheet of brownies

without a knife, every crumb

eaten whole.


the sun a watchdog, a parent, the moon

a refrigerator light

in the dark night sky of home.


and the stands, the crowd with sadness

stapled to their foreheads, they eye you

scooping worms but don’t tell you


that the crabgrass flattened on baseball diamonds

(like hairs on a bald man’s pate)

grows from bones,


because it’s your discovery


it’s your discovery

that the world cuts and hammers what it loves

and forges gold from the collision

of jackknifed stars.


Text © Randy W. Plym




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We are committed to publishing the human condition, the raw diverse global entanglement, with total impartiality.


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