I’m scattered in the dust like 
a big stomp in the airless desert like 
a heady wind in a dry August 
that whips up bits of rock 
and hurls it at the gulch
to carve its graffiti marks — 

I’m jumpy, jumpy like the cricket
on her birthday, thumping her cricket
legs together like the earth will soon
stop turning. Cause both 
the cricket and I know, if it 
would it could and has already. 

How can it be that I spread like
cold butter on cold bread 
and yet unify so soundly 
when the metal lid clangs
against the glass carafe? 
My billions of beings all lonely 
and screaming slap back together
with one magnet pull 

to launch me skyward 

in direct rotation with 

that loose and lazy 

Earth grind. 

Rozell, 2022.

1 Comment on “Put Apart and Pulled Together

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