The plant that walked,
I have seen it.
They say it was uprooted, but it wasn't.
As the shadow of the tower grew,
It followed the sun to a better place.
Though whether its roots moved and carried it,
Or it pushed the earth through its roots,
I could not say.

It is hard to write and hard not to write.
I hover over the next word or sentence, hesitating.
Perhaps I am searching what to write for,
Because I have no words to write.
But perhaps the words are pushing out,
Trying to be born,
To come out through me into the world.
It hurts.

I tumbled into her.
Climbed her,
But found instead of a summit,
A crater.
I fell through, and the molten
Fluids consumed me,
Dissolved me.
I moved beneath the shifting crust,
In unknowing, in agony,
Till she spit me out, spent,
On some distant shore.

I crawl from
The flaming wreck,
Over the burning sand.
I reach out for water, but
Gather only rocks.
The water has moved away,
Just a little bit further.
Always a little hit further.
I crawl until my hands and face bleed.
When I give up,
Lie on my back,
Stare into the sun,
A pitcher of the sweetest water!
All this while I had not asked.

White stone canyon
Gleaming in the sun
Empty of men and women
Empty of grass and trees
Filled only with forgotten monuments
Small ones, and big ones towering above
But above them all a single spire
Judges all around it
Watches them fill up
With sand and mud and dirt and dust
Till it alone remains, a pillar of white stone
As tall as me

Pull out
Of the flower
The dead bee.
It gets in the way.