there are thirty-seven ways of dealing with a brick wall
when you do not count the moss that scales your growth:
the first way levies a smart tax on the scattering gray,
way thirty-seven a bitter grinding of spent and bloodied flesh-
the in-between a forgotten study of the mesh of considerations
chronicled by crusty sages and a glacial permutation of beards:
the cat's cradle of crow's claws scratch isosceles in the sand.
between mortar smash and vermillion splatter
the arithmetic of salty after mirth is just a playground
evolving from sweet blue rust to chartreuse plastic:
the heavenly brat swings through gravity's lurch
and bullies the cream cheese and jelly from unsuspecting grins-
stolen tarnish from the sweaty coins of palmed redemption
is ransomed by strawberry globs and a bread-like offering
that, in its globular wonder, seems like a god is coming.
there are many ways to chatter and one way to silence.
this is not devoid of gray and grainy pleasure
and that is, wonderfully, the way to point your brickwork-
the now is great with its equilateral trowel,
the then a softly dripping, if encrusted, trough.
luscious ocher wax drips from a taper that is over-
the worst of the stains elbowed into musty boxes
by the steadfast recovery of yellowed grease.
this is mostly not enough.