John Ray, in 1671, extracted pure acid by the spiritous distillation of crushed red ant remains. What have I done, today, as acerbic or sodding perfect? As consummate, complete, thoroughgoing and stark, as virtuous and undiluted? Where has time gone, immaculate and symphonious?

We retreat to synthesize commodities and knit, the world described as indescribable, (or perhaps an oasis of awesome: approachable by all, one or none.)

Skeps of Ogilvie Sisters
Swarms under canopy
Dysphoric thorax-fecundity
Colony collapse, nave and apse
No honied commodity

Truth Tied Tight

Truth tried truth-food
Though truth’s tooth,
Rooted and crooked grew
Sick at talk of truth tied tight
No truths but crook’s trucked telling
With truth suits at trial
Truth clues too few
Truth talk ignoring
Truth’s proof in queue.

Rocks Talk of Wind Sound

Wind waves to skinned suits, with wind’s arms waving and rocks wave back. A truth told in the waving wind, truth smacks of ship talk. Shipped out, truth doubts turn downtown, lusting proof, longing for scale, a suit, a tongue-dance, a simple crawl. The rocks talk of wind sound, slight and slow scratching of sand-sea-time. Scratches etched on glass, on corroded surfaces of sight, on sediment sandwiched in slow reach.