RUMMAGING THROUGH IT

The trunk for now will be the field
The field of then will be tossed
and
maybe something else
who knows?


Forcing hands against the sides 
of a world reduced
to the lowest denominator
of the common disqualified


Harried by corners filled in
not even corners anymore
Lips held in toward the thought
Not now
Not then
Trunks of fields
Dry with forgotten endings


That never happen


Forcing hands against the sides
of a world reduced
to the lowest denominator
of the common disqualified


Ink was it?
A voice was it?
A metal sharp metal was it?
Marking territory
coming to a point
maybe 
maybe not
probably not
coming to a head
coming to a trunk


Forcing hands against the sides
moving apart skulls
in the dark gardens
filling corners for the burial
under accumulation compiled by
worms
they are their insistence
crawling through it
forcing hands




- Max Stoltenberg