There’s the sky’s bright wound again, open, gaping.
What time is it? Too long, too heavy, too much.
One can’t properly cook with a toaster oven. Tea with crackers isn’t much
for sustenance. But there are those with the gall to say that’s too much.
Would you really begrudge an elder a share of bread and board?
Would you yell at her: Turn off the lights, the bill’s too much?
There’s the sky’s bright wound again, open, gaping. And its eyes
are bottomless wells, staring. Too naked, too raw, too much.
How much evidence is needed? Here’s fortitude, and making do,
and doing without. At the end of the day, the ache of too much.
I’ve been flame for you, tinder, clay pot. I’ve been the fuse and the hunger,
the ticket and the ticket box. At the end of the day, all too much.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.