an obdurate urn

an iron filled fleck
an iron filed fleck of necessity
gritsworn bedecked with halflives

of a temptress cross with lump of
life; this is the throat of truth

gurgling away a stuffed waffle, thin
slices laced with cinnamon and doubt.

some talk of a hilltop
some talk of a hilltop is given
in the grammar of

snow, some dearness is lost in
the gravity of

stone, some trapped air is sunk
in thin foil

sheets, some lost noun is wed.

an obdurate urn
my grit is yesterday’s homecoming
filled with a round cup of loss, a
weather worn slide into din, where

wonder is laid bare and vehicled
as the tenements of clawing necessity
are mightily sworn off to fluff. The

revenue of respectability is a blue
collar ringed with a slight tinge of
an insane pallor, an obdurate urn.

this hour at hand
when harm opens up the space, the
ground that bleats the past back

into now, when deed of yore is
seed of blight, of creed, is that

when you know your care is craft
is need is hour, this hour at hand?