DRY CRIK Journal

Secret cubbyholes for lush dreams,
hirsute hillsides flowered green, wild
oats combed in waves of heavy heads

bent unanimously. Sometimes
we forget where we’ve hidden
what no man needs to steal, what

becomes of our small contribution
to ourselves. Sometimes the rhetoric
clouds where we’ve come from.

I imagine dirty cave children
rolling log, twig and bone wheels
across a hard cavern floor, new

toy traps for the unaware, hiding
the smoothest like pretty marbles
for more important revelations.