Rubble, rumble, toil, trouble. All week long, a poem wrestled with me, and I within it. It held me tightly in its grip, everything onomapoetic with rubble. Emotions far outweighed thought: I grabbed at words, poor human with a pen, hoping something might eventually be interpretable.
Early Thursday morning, it released me. It hatched me like a clean and happy chick. You know the feeling, lying there dazzled and wondrous at nothing at all.
In this post-ness, there is no big vision. The nuzzling of two green things inside a streak of sun: a chlorophyllic fingered leaf lays its consolation on a celery green couch. Estranged family. The live plant remembers that the cloth, the weave, flax, linen, may have been an ancestor. The roll of a warmbody in bed on a cool morning. The squeal of a trumpet in a big band. The bend of a head. Tenderness in the gesture, an open field of peace.