To some the grip of a torn heart is
Dear; to others, it is the value of
Money. To some, the snips of river
Are near; to others they are further
Than rain. What the forest wants more
Than earth is to be to where the
Worms live and find out why they don’t
Come out more often and sing tales
Of fear. That way they could feel
Lighter, and the sun too could shine
With less guilt. The past is due now.
With a blunt instrument, can you slice
Through empirical classes and wish
Away the sluice of rhyme that locks
In place after a limp modus ponens
Remembers Socrates, remembers man?
Take this useless blade and allow it
To rust its slick away with each bleed
Of night, shuck of day, drawl of om,
Cool of the viper’s shady venom drawing
Luckless ciphers and callous rules of thumb.