(or pockets,

or loop-de-loops)

of time

(meaningless time)

in transition

with sensations of being ground

in the grain mill,

where would we be without them?

In a blistering wind

anger rises and hands us the energy

to do away 

with a trail of uselessness hitching

to our backsides.

(Why were we dragging that marriage/house/walrus again?)

Without halting in mad winds

who jostle our brains and

send hairs flying

we’d not have noticed the 872 pounds

of shit

attached to our spines


we can now let go of.

Hallelujah for stopping

to strike the match of compassionate flame

and throwing it on

a tinderbox of ancient nonsense.