Blind Review Friday.
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We have come to the edge
of this place, and there is no
stepping off that does not leave
We chip away at morning to see
what lies beneath. Even the earth-
worm and the weed have infernal
engines that will not comply. Still,
we churn our garden, only to grow
things we think cannot die.
Everything has its end.
Even the mechanical jaw owes
its human hands – hands that plow
furrows deep in an earth that only
reveals the rocky strata of our myths
of ascent. The clay calls out beneath
our steel nests. When we sleep, we
remember when soft beds of hay
and a pennywhistle were enough.
Yet even with our cloven hooves,
we think it is us that have left
the light on.
Now our garlands hang high upon
towers of lilac and thunder, but it is
that strong wind that defeats us, always,
carrying the scent of all that we have
Monuments to nothing will fly and then
vanish. It is our hands that will remember -
plunged deep into a soil that gazes out
on a landscape with human eyes.