__
i want to ask what it is that we think we're doing
where it is that we're headed
the true value of production
the existence of value in anything at all
i hear a reference to a funeral as a homecoming
scratching relief from a fickle heart
sputtering fecundity retained in blood
i hold vegetables in grit
i am the shit of this earth
grown up to syncopation
grown up through synchronicity
these pearls left unstrung and instead sunken
washed up like an accident
the best place one can find oneself
in the grips of trophic cascade
__
a man in meridian park does tai chi
a man in meridian park skates an empty fountain bowl
i dangle my legs off the edge of a staircase above an archway
the sunlight cuts thin through the sky
a beagle's nails scratch against the pebbles
i am filled with joy in the hot almost winter
we are a day from the solstice
the unseen road washes in like waves
the rodentia mind nothing below the low branches of the shrubbery
i hear someone spit and two others sing faintly beyond the far stone wall
a still dry sprinkler is adorned with a sticker
this gentle shade is an act of subversion
Scott Krave is cyclical but has never considered himself much of a cyclist. Some of his other work appears on the internet. Some of it doesn't.