Posts Tagged ‘Minecraft’


Tonight we rolled back
a month of mornings that crept,
tickwise, the whole of the sky
like the firmament thought once
to swaddle the world,
star-layers and strata
stowing little ellipses
nested like cyclical gears.

Weeks of work undone
in the wake of an error,
but I am untroubled,
carrying only a pick
and a shovel, a drive
to remake what we’ve both wiped away.

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Tedious excision, like severing
mold lines from a crusader:
You razor our home from its played-out old world,
lift it up like a cloud-hoisted castle,
oaken ark driven by many
waters up from a still plain.

It drifts like a lily shorn off from its root
and then settles downstream: little farm,
far-flung tracks still intact,
framed now by scarp and topple,
precipice edges abutting the ocean,
sunflower plains, mushrooms suited
for shortcuts and shrinking,
stippled allium and oxeye ringing the trees.

Our matching maps, new-made and blank,
unveil step by step what’s ahead of our marks,
a half-glimpse before us. An inkling. A hint.

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Like the fading red
remnant after three and cheese,
you flutter through the dawning downpour
as a kindergartner
strafes miss the rain,
pivoting on bare toes
in a hummingbird’s zag,
more drenched with every dodge.

From the window I watch you
dart and dwindle,
each flash farther
from the safety of the snow.

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Parti-colored herd, they did not gambol,
hardly frolicked, rarely reared
until with open hand and luck
we tried ourselves at riding,
stirrupless, without hands cupped to boost
and launch us to the sway,

and that empty offering
only after clearing ground for wheat,
felling apples, scouring shores for sugar cane
in the hope of tempting, taming.

Yours a solid black, and mine is dappled gray
as we gallop for the trees,
consider the first frontier’s assault
against the underbrush,
every going slow, anchored in the want
of an easy path through.

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In the mushroom field, bound in by ice and stream,
by the far flock of forest from behind,
there stout redcaps and lanky toadstools grew,

which I worked in with meal and shade.
Tops and stems stood tall enough to walk beneath,
to circle and pretend a life that’s fair or fey.

Speckled red and stoic cream are shot
through now with cobble, with knotted slab,
and at their feet unfold the mycelium tiers

undercut by hiss and bang, the misty blasted ground
undone by sinister green.
I know we can repair it. I know

how unadult it seems to mourn a fancy
twice removed from real, to grieve after an artifice
in a world where almost nothing’s indestructible,

where pick and time take anything apart.
I wish for the reality of gardens, for the solemn
turn at the cusp of sprig, spade

crisp through the crust, like a moon
of silver through brûlée, everything beneath it
sweet, moist like succulents and dew.

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