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The ultra-sound
of human warm.
The iron lung
of poetry.
Mosaic mud
of thinking loud,
this empty page
has goals to meet.
A grocery cart;
shoehorn wise;
a ruler longer
than my thumbs.
I measure wealth
like muddy streams
that promise leeches,
lame excuses
somewhere (almost)
not quite safe.
Rip up risk--
sit down to write
like caterpillars
tilling earth.
I chew on cranes
of fountain pens
without regard
for spraying ink.
A toothpick
chasing olive pits
that tries its hardness
because it’s there--
cold caramels
fed to grinding teeth.

- Janet I. Buck

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