In All that Wires Us

I feel a veil sickening
Covering me tickle-ing,
Thousands of spiderlings
Striding the drafts of crouping .

The sick and the well :
The grouping .
Not moving ; but removed .

So tired .
Fatigue pats you lovingly,
Murmuring, “ There, there .
— Shhh . ”

No impetus at all, from all
That inpired prior
The virus .

RedBoxPlainSm*[ WSB ].

Posted on by waltersboxx

The World Is Not Flat


To wit : the earth is polar planated
With the equator inflated, a bit .

No turtles that paddle distantly down;
No planets rattle around terra lown.
No dome with windows flung open to rain;
No storm god in blue scopes an icebound plain.

RedBoxPlainSm*[ WSB ].

Posted on by waltersboxx

Eight Chapters and an Epilogue

Rocks are a library of history .
Microfossils in fissures,
Bubbles of bacteria :
Protozoans that came
Before the Cambrian .
Eukaryotic hammer of the gods
Cracking the carbon floodgate,
But in the record :
Death is no wider than a knife’s edge .

RedBoxPlainSm*[ WSB ].

Posted on by waltersboxx

Wrong, All the Time

The wrong thinker tinkers,
Wheel out of round .

Twisting spokes

To straddle fences, rattling
With spinning plates downtown .

A tired juggler .

A spurting performance
Of ergs out of sync :

Misspoken symbols clash .

Back and forth futility
Crashes to the ground:

The stage indifferent .

RedBoxPlainSm*[ WSB ].

Posted on by waltersboxx