You are a white screen begging for color, pleading to deep from the deep. Full of meditations and repressions, you pursue the art of stuffing.
You are a wheelbarrow. So much depends upon who’s pushing you, who’s tilting and swaying until the tipping point.
You are a field, a prairie with white wild flowers hiding the moles and worms, who find their life in the ground’s gristle.
You are a spine that belies the contents. With one word you slant and garble and disguise the inside. With two words, you truth-tell.
You are an atlas. There’s not a location or a latitude that’s not in you. The maps mark everything, but only when you open.