SEROTINY
Feb 24, 2017 · 1 min read
It takes great heat
To release the grip
And spill fecund odds games
Without regret or cruelty.
The gobbled up,
Blown away
Unactualized mess — cruel.
A dust of potentiality.
So, we are held tightly.
Oh, but when it works,
Sweet baby pitch pine,
We pine in high pitches,
And disappear as ghosts
In the new forest,
Spears through the ash.
And the new heat comes,
Again and again
When it sees us holding tightly
To burn and build
And spill the uncountable newness
We think is singular,
But just one dime for one dozen.