into hands like ink

after sifting
40-some gallons of compost
one gets the rhythm
of it
and carries that dirt
pressed into hands like ink onto paper
for the rest of the day
and into tomorrow
_______

gibbous the cat
fast as a streak
indigo bunting trapped
in his sharp teeth grip
in the greenhouse
_______

can you act out
coking an omelet tyler asks
at the site of the future
outdoor kitchen
and baigz does some
egg-cracking pan-handling gestures
facing north
glimpsing out across chicken yard
_______

how hard we laugh
at the lunch table
over the image/concept
of chain mail chaps (assless)
and later
we laugh hard again at
all the cheesy parts of
karate kid

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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