CHOP

Grab and grope gripe and gag barge in the dark
No glint no glow no gleam no glimmer
The moon is a mouse chased by a cat

Chatter as unstable as the arara of jungle birds
Waking when our one faith is that the sun will rise
A last rum tot deified an epilogue to stale coffee grinds
And loitering wood smoke in the snug
Burnt pie crust soaky dishes disturbed
Creaky door to the dewed grass

Time to chop wood petrified yet dry from the barrel
Apple rot in icy air where the rain wall dripped
An olfactory of brake spit, wet brick
The acrid fenk of cat piss
I feel for the axe as the violet light turns lavender
As molten light cometh I chop wood
Before the awe of rising light I chop wood