The palmetto weevil sings the earth
is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof.
God what a horror to behold.
I am heavy with death and the tragedy of words.
I slosh and sift it all through
my past and my body
in the race to build some kind of arc.
But the fullness will not be mined.
It will abound, and till me into the soil.
Not for love or meaning’s sake;
for the sake of birth and death.
The weevil knows this.
She in her crushing beauty
buzzes along the ground sniffing with her tawdry rostrum
for the soon-to-be-tits-up saw palmetto
She has no hunger for meaning.
Her life is a pile of discrepant events
that end in buried eggs and dead palmettos.
God is not mocked, or praised, or mentioned.
And everything is torn away in the great churning.
God what a horror to behold the palmetto weevil.