an Andiron

In this place I am
congenitally predisposed
to weakness.

And am thusly as one
andiron which is nearly
worthless

but for keeping the potential
of the smallest fires in,
if in an isthmus.

Wakefulness

He finally has come to rapidity, maybe,
too late. Like five'o'clock in the morning
when he woke up in a huff, crying, maybe
and the blank cameo that wasn't there
or still was there, which was worse.

And the trains that he boarded; late, or
crashed. The tin can of the tin can of the
tin can, indignant, unwilling to give up
the remembering and fills with water
and sinks promptly and irretrievably.

And when given him what should have
been a little golden Guadeloupe makes
him "nearly feel like" he loves you.
Makes him wake from a dream and think
what went too slowly was pushed quicker.

to the Wheel

An abruptness volcano says
you are becoming sick of this;
and I am. The humming of
the grindstone against us is
wearing a groove that's the width
that it's flat cylindrical side is.

You are the grind wheel and I am
pushing the pedal and gears of life
or the great fleshy lack of them.
I know exhaustion too of what
flattens a life; of the thousand
small grains of sandstone in a pile.