by Paul Bills
Steel beasts in the sky are our slaves
bringing us ocean breakfasts, mountain lunches;
the dough and its yeast separate over continents
like the baker has too much on His mind.
And so our trees grow fuller fruits
but longer branches.
Life is simple mysteries
killed if simply solved:
Neither gemstone nor seashell matters
when we’ve lost water and ground.
When we can’t catch up with all the growing spaces,
like bookends, we’re limitless and nothing.