Working

its swift and quick rumble bubbles comfort for a while
and stirs in through flesh light food

listening food

to hear the ready to fight yawn of a hostage
behind melancholy, stubbing courage down to a blunt lumped mass

which, if i watchfully allow,
slowly piles up over itself
and figures into a clay -

- all the bells ring out to the tips of my fingers scribbling to find pattern in air and clutching in strings for pieces
to play with, to caress the face,
smooth over the eyelids

and when the bells slow their toll

then, i'm reminded of the first rumbling bubbling rumble -


- this is the tumbling stone, cyclic in my working method
collecting mud, swelling with each lapse relay
over matter incarnate and incarnate