Ellen Stone
I believe in haircuts, the do-over,
transformation
of surfaces.
Receptacle of arms, circulating
whirl a gigs, spreading over
vacant thoughts, quack grass,
wilted clumps of sweet clover.
All this pressure, squeak of the on-off.
Tilt, adjust. The whole mechanism
hums again.
Continual spit, glug & churr, churr.
Your own personal cicada.
Sequestered until twilight dips.
Fireflies backlit.
Steady as nightfall, filling the well,
distributing it.