| |
| atlas |
|
|
| the empty field |
| soil tilled |
| atlas hoisting it on his shoulder |
| the seeds and rain load the furrows |
| with the heaviness of dreams |
| |
| it is the third year |
| already his skin is cracked from exposure |
| it isn’t easy playing god |
| |
| the sun high |
| he walks, tending as he would to his mother |
| spoon-feeding with tender insistence |
| water brought to creviced lips |
| the land now is heavy with dust |
| |
| the solstice does not last |
| for the sun cannot help but go down |
| and in the earth he grasps |
| there is not enough to hold the world |
| |
| |
|
5.13.05 |
|
s.spachman |