Only When You Open




You are a white screen begging
for color, pleading to deep
from the deep. Full of meditations
and repressions, you pursue
the art of stuffing.

You are a wheelbarrow.
So much depends upon who’s
pushing you, who’s tilting
and swaying until the
tipping point.

You are a field, a prairie with
white wild flowers
hiding the moles and worms,
who find their life in the
ground’s gristle.

You are a spine that
belies the contents. With
one word you slant and garble
and disguise the inside. With
two words, you truth-tell.

You are an atlas. There’s
not a location or a latitude
that’s not in you. The maps
mark everything, but
only when you open.

Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *