Carnot Cycle

Only sometimes does homegrown bedrock glow moneygreen.

     Sometimes rock whines mommy. Sometimes rock coos baby.

     Sometimes rock calls late with the mortgage. Sometimes rock

     knits shoulder blades right where you can’t pluck.

Early mornings something doesn’t sit right over the sink. Sits crooked.

     Slumps askew. Body doesn’t lay the way you left it. Squinting gets

     you nowhere. You squat to the floor and feel around. Stop. Smell

     for it. Shrug. Still some dangling something modifies you.

     Smackdab midchest you feel lumpy empty. Sniff. Sniff.

Shrug.

Like those days we grab our own pickaxes and head down to the

    mine. We hum worksongs. We sing hymns. We chip worry stone.

    We gather moss. We lie flat. We scratch at the mineshaft. Not

     toward exit but deeper to the core.