There are empty spaces
That remain empty.
And the plants continue to grow.
Their many probing
Stalks
Me.
My callused hands,
Branch around
the
Evidence
Of the shovel.
Unearthed
The clod flies
Crying
"To fill something
Iron will."
The sap dries
Crying
"To will it,
I kill what wasn’t"
Regardless
I Wrung and I write
White albatross
I dives for fish
In aqua/ inadequate
For the job.
Any egg will do
A dearth
Of roe
Birthdigger
Digs none the less
Slobs off
The evidence of process
Ashamed of the likemind, the other
Flock wheeling.
The conscientious prune.
The root rip
Who cares, what was will be
Returning the empty
To the empty.
Clothes on or off
A reprieve from you
Frozen in want
Me endlessly
Wand In hand
Illuminating
What wasn’t
There.