I pick the burrow
but there’s nothing left
to pick- brown greenish earth mud swirls around
down the
rabbit hole
– I pick anyway
and the earth bleeds… I
stop in painful shame and
I too feel the hurtful burn
of uncertainty.
I’m fine 4 a while then
I’m fire 4 A while THEN
I’m fine 4 a while then
then hours
later out of hateful habit
I take the scalpel &
look 4 something that isn’t here
I scan the walls
run my fingers over the
dried paint & mounds
of unseeable dirt
each
pile, bubble
different
but there lies a family, a unity
within the art of complexity
I want to pick at the old wounds
(at this house with no wind)
but I can’t reach them
there are far back &
my fingers are too big
WILDsound Festival 