The Invisible Hand
       

When you visit the
orchard, be prepared
for how sickly the
trees seem, their green
ribs like some
hyperbolic painting done
by a German. Honestly,
you can say what you
want about winter.
How it reneged this year's
most sumptuous
developments—the sun
perforated, its light
now unflattering
to a shrike. No one
takes stock with the
usual accounting.

Aloneness, like walking
through the tunnel
others drive in. You know
it takes forever,
having to wither yourself
down by way
of irreparable
sadness, being honed,
being made
aerodynamic as a tube, then
building back up
from thatinventing cathedrals,
trying to drive
horses. What's for sure
is how much you need
the compulsion. Brick dust
all over your hands.

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Copyright © 2016 Darin Ciccotelli All rights reserved
from West Branch
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission