No Cover Art
Michael Maul
Devoid of cover art, I write with a colony of words,
who show up everyday like black worker ants
willing to live or die in a heap on the page
if I say the cause is just, if I give hope
of our building something good together.
Not everlasting, necessarily, but magnificent enough,
like a life-sized cow carved from butter, or
household furniture hewn of ice, or
dragons drawn in chalk climbing from the walk,
or on the beach a wheelchair man made of sand
with sun-colored grainy knees.
with no past or future but to be swept away today,
in an exquisite hat of woven water weeds.
Michael Maul
Devoid of cover art, I write with a colony of words,
who show up everyday like black worker ants
willing to live or die in a heap on the page
if I say the cause is just, if I give hope
of our building something good together.
Not everlasting, necessarily, but magnificent enough,
like a life-sized cow carved from butter, or
household furniture hewn of ice, or
dragons drawn in chalk climbing from the walk,
or on the beach a wheelchair man made of sand
with sun-colored grainy knees.
with no past or future but to be swept away today,
in an exquisite hat of woven water weeds.