Poem 127: Fault Line

at this point
the image is running,

running

on into a circus
of fault finding
fault, and this becomes
the deadly practise
of catching
the brilliant worm of love
travelling poor
in colour and sight,
released from the earth
of single effort
sliced to unite itself
but found to be
tied and struggling
to the tillers dreaming
of a harvest coiled
and programmed
to the chain of constant
moving and expanding
our data’s data,
our almas mater
and arch slave
to the preservation mills
grinding of its heels
on this assortment
of cloudy ends
and feeble spells polished
through and through
by one sorrowing
blade of grass
that was ready to bend
either way, for the feet
and path of the runner.