My most recent poem.
What Is This Weight?
Not like being on the bottom of a pile
of sweaty guys at the goal line. Or carrying
a stout box on your back. More annoyance,
but slight, a pressure oozing the oil
out of an olive, slowly, a drop at a time.
What’s this smell, lying like a light fog
over the fields at dawn? A whiff of rot
perfumed in subtle shades of rustic rust,
something swirled from a heap of tarnished
detritus, half shiny in the dampness.
And this disquieting chill snaking
into every crevice, every nook, every bone,
a silent shiver that bores like the point
of a pick between molars that glisten white
and strong, marred only by old crowns?