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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