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