Which is it then?
Are we to forge
Or speak what’s next?
Sun, moon, day—mind.
The worst of this
Is that it must
Be aimed at you—
There’s no one else.
If the ground could
Judge a poem’s lines—
If the night cared
To cast a vote—
No one makes poems
By gift or craft
That skulls don’t judge.
There’s no one else.
Thursday, March 25, 2021
Wright Seer
