It's no wonder I am hollowed out. Apple's bitten clean through its core. Even seeds' gone, swallowed whole, but they are sprouting in cavernous abdomens to fruitless, ulcerous crab trees. This is what the void plants: the so much need & yearning for so much in poor soil. For something more majestic than this even when I close my eyes & dream it all in color, repeating, remembering. All the thankless routines of praising false harvests has me wishing for blank, soundless waves, hill-less horizons. That's what it means to be wise I've been told: forgive vulgar volcanoes for acting out their discontent.