Between the Word and the sacri-legible scrawl,
Among the crawlers of No-Man’s Land,
In trenches more deep than I am tall
…sigh…I take my stand.
Psychomachinists would lathe me,
Fulfill their quota of happy cogs.
Founders of faith would melt me, pour me
Into molds the shapes of their gods.
Where plates grind their convergence line,
Within the cracks, I bide my time;
‘Til tectons split the synclination
And manifest a new creation.