The rope of truth does not go far
You may only roam
the world you know
Paper mines are scattered
like rose petals
Each lick of ink explosive
We are in glass jars
stacked on shelves
Pricked holes on top to breathe
Is it easier to wait for the sky to fall
or take out the pins that hold it up?
Wire cats sing until they don’t
“Sing no more” says the fog
And the phonograph sits silently,
For the bull to find its horns.
This is the title poem for my anthology, “We are in Glass Jars“.