Content

There is nothing so worthless as a hole
that any matter seems preferable,
tossed in until the earth is closed, sated,
spaded shut with dirt or shit or the like,
mere quantities, trafficked in disregard
if not contempt, if not loathing – more words;
more matter that does not, more hot horseshit
for the hungry ground, for the green to grow,
for the shifting gifs and clever-ish memes
to chew the edges from – and what remains?

I read once of a famine so severe
people made cakes from meal mixed in with clay.

I consider writing five hundred words,
and only when I don’t, am I content.

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