heap

Uncanny how the hands
always fold, as if at long last
conceding the point, yet
stay in play on the sly
side of this daily aggregation,
these sins that come tumbling,
crumbs on the lips,
salt for the soil. A vast
glut of plastic gutting
Ahab’s nemesis, our evil
the heap of debris and
the burned down world.
So I gather my attrition
wind the clock with
dull routine and tiny hopes,
closing the loop,
sealing circles, sitting
footloose, arms open wide.
The long talk and the big dreams
all come down to broken
cups and buried cans,
the depths of the earth
only stacked up
rocks and ruins.