Braids, combs for the hair
As buried artifact,
As dog crouched, as Sphinx, Charybdis,
Artemis in her field
Brushing the path of wind in the farmer’s worries.

Is it not all bound together
As sheaves in the categories of mind.
The scales of justice,
Good swelling with pride,
Evil nursing the resentment of vengeance.

You laid out as much
Like a will or a diatribe or a free flow poem
Masquerading as someone else’s subconscious,
Some blue deep water
On the hibiscus horizon of hibernating contemplation,
Waiting a while for Spring,
Holding secret juices for the flower everyone will see
For a few days of weeping
Before we recede, stage left,
Back to the ground.

The Director’s take is cut up on the floor to make it better,
Make it say more in syncope with rhythm,
With the people of the crowd starting, to moving,
Starting the wave of the itch like the wind in the field,
Like money on long stalks,
Grain in silos,
Posture of an aggressive future.

The soft belly of the market future is where we live,
How we travel on Sundays for a show, or desert
Or to serve the world of others as a cause,
Nimble, cautious, talking others.

By Rolf Stavig
2/12/2023