The Glory Hole

It is as if your mind is sharpened to the razor’s edge,

senses sharp, a fine point.

You can feel the crispness of autumn on your back,

at your peripheral is, mutually,

the blue sky and orange glow of the glory hole.

Your hand knows its path

(it should it’s followed it repetitively in practice),

and is working its way up slowly, slowly

to dislodge the plastic dinosaur from the sand.

Scattered around your knees

are the remnants of imprints

that came before the dinosaur:

Barbie’s head, a corroded piece of metal,

the slinky, a piece of bark.

Pieces to be forgotten, imprints to be filled

with molten glass, cooled, then on to bake in Super Freak.


This moment is not about what you have to do,

it is not about the next keystroke,

or what is to come -

It is about the sharpness of your senses and the steadiness of your hand.