The Whole

A person in a steady place-
us all sometimes-

is averse to a story of faltering,

finding little in being slow
and dragging to the start

of a long, looming day.

Yet the whole faces each.

It can be forgotten
and drunk and slept on

only illusorily.

The whole cannot be digested.

It returns double force
at its leisure.

It may become necessary

to call your mother

and keenly listen

to find your step.

* * *

In time I will turn
the grind of my teeth-

the grind
of my organ blood
as though infiltrated with sand-

into a whetting wheel.
I seek to spark a fine steel

blade, then brandish it and slash
down the whole,
carving a monstrosity
into clutchable moments

to walk through
in normal breaths.

Whether it be tree-dressed
mountains I craved,

or the harmless relentless paved
way I'm unable to blame,

it must be broken down.
One enormous scene is too cruel.

Questions of loves
and places and years

become a tornado-
a storm unbravable.

Only by stopping
to form my whetting words

can I halt the train of whirling winds
that rattles my tongue

like an unfurling flag of chaos.

* * *

Each faces the whole
and knows it is of earth.

The all of nature within us
begins to sing.

We make sense
thru furious need-

and in the crash of worry-
at the scent of death-

we know a miracle.
Close then we stay


to the day path of humanity,
refilled and wise,

seizing the universe
by doing,

rinsing our miracle
in action,

hearing a soul beat loud
at every turn

and inviting what we know
to be unending.