The Quarry

Abandon the coin-like
Moment to turn over.
Don’t start with outworn thought.
If feeling cannot be struck by lines,
Then what?
More flattery of nature—
For instance, how the trashcan of rainwater
Wakes the morning eye further
In its alchemy of ice,
With carmine and rust-colored leaves
Trapped like fish in a windowpane.

Afterthoughts can ornament
But these are only stones
A slave cuts and mortars.
Poor unintelligible sermon,
What more?
That words are also worms,
Workers of dirt, of silk.
Who loves them hates them.
Who dredges them up to die in puddles
Or steals their cocoons for this finery.

Pay with what happens,
Strike feeling without cleverness.
Flatter her! She can sing in a trash can.
Admit you lifted her gift
To feel the burn of ice and see it smash,
To free the fish to be leaves.


Adam King resides in Silver City, NM, and is currently finding (or losing) himself in writing fiction and learning the art of fairy tale interpretation.

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