to be lonely at the edge of the world…
is it not enough;

‘to see the Eucharist waves
beach themselves like grainy poppies

and to watch the dirt grow soft and cool
as it thrashes between your fingers

and as the final grasses moan
their requiem of snow

to bow in worship to the cottonmouth wind
as it whitens fields beyond

and know that as the whetstone crumbles
this is all you’ve ever known’?
© C.S.G.