Literature
Spiral
The road is blue-lipped with cold.
One hour’s drive to type
officious little documents
for eight hours, then
another hour back, and again
again the next day
the filling and unfilling
of holes in the sand
I am so small and mean-hearted.
Winter casts its iron gaze
over everything
I can see.
People want to be doctors,
or lawyers, or gardeners,
or travelers or lovers or loved I have only
ever wanted to be
home, tucked away
like a secret, like a flower
pressed in the family bible.
And there’s no such thing as a soul,
the high white towers of god
are empty and chilled with drafts,
but still
the birds eddy in an