the small-small

the small-small lays no claim on heaven, lays nothing
by store as it seeks only to diminish what seems to be

its gain; the small
small makes no effort, strives
not one bit, not
one bit as it seeks
to belittle, to be
little
itself.

The anvil’s thud

To talk of the anvil, doing what? Doing thud thud
thud, and then what? Forging metal. And then
what? Form formed, so? Where was the anvil when

The leaf had escaped and the dewdrop slid off into
grime to be contained by no one, owned by no
body? Yes the anvil is a fine bit of metal, sturdy

As they come. But its timing is off. By aeons,
measured off by beat, by metre, by a lost
rhythm only the salt of the sea can remember.

Rhythm is not soothed by invoking the fury
of god while pounding thud thud thud on an
anvil. That is just dumb. When did god ever

Respond to such an inane calling? The anvil
must now rest in the corner – or if you prefer –
at the centre, but rest it must, inert as thud.

Wolverine delight, yes?

So the pack of wolves has gone out and
done the hounding about or something (in the
wilderness yes?) So

the pack has gone hiding in the neverglades, and
you yearn for their howl, their gritty teeth and the
allusion to vampires. So

here we have the wolves, their teeth indentured and their
howls proper-ized so that each So-La follows Do-Re with
a fleck of mint stuck in their pilfered (yes indentured) molars

and a fleeting sound that makes you suspect that perchance
there is a hint of Latin in their disembowelled growls, and the
grammarian squeals a squeal (of joy yes?)