Some prime trauma
turns this thing — one moment
one fist one strike splits the apple tree.

This is how it begins — the scattering
of jays the dull thumps the once prime
broken in two.

I saw the sky turn against itself today
green hips skirted with shingle
as nothing stops a third wind.

Nothing stops the cruel mineral
mind expanding though rapt
about its pearlslick coil its pinprick

its axial innocence shielded
in the crust that builds a body — that mean
accretion of loss and hard weathers.

Image: Diana Deaver on Unsplash

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