the shaft dark
but for lantern light
silent
but for the sound
of the pick
and his own
ragged breath
he wipes the sweat
from his eyes
with dirty hand
and swings again
chipping away
at the plausible
one rock at a time
looking for the
gleam of possibility
oh, the bits of taste
honey and dust
dirt to mud
he folds them up
in his mouth
learns their flavors
prayers
wishes
confessions
and lies
he sings wildly
like a wind chime
seeding the storm
in verse
but all that blooms
are dark stunted buds
too late he has hungered
for the taste of what is
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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