Q u i d a m

I, you & they

trying to find little shovels (I)

I'm here, wandering in the dark

for some glittery, shining in the end

fingers working as shovels,

digging out a hole,

to drive or dive in,

reverberating a throbbing gut.

shells are for moulding (you)

you're waving in the sea of grief,

grief of tides, floating down

paving the little stones in

the shore, you try to grab—

before you're taken away.

holes of poles (they)

they're whispering in the oak tree,

where the sparrow were supposed to

shrink, and suddenly a finger on the

trigger, a loud wailing covers the ears.

we make a wall to create or inferno,

existed within me, with you folks.

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