Roy Herndon Smith
A jackhammer works
on pavement—minds, not so much.
Invisible trolls
jackhammer words, shards
of apocalyptic fire
and ice. They jabber
cacophonies that
collapse mountains, the sky, space,
time—it all falls down.
Cutting through the din,
a screak—a bird, a baby—
a cry, a whisper,
a rasp caressing
silence recalls the present
jackhammer breaking
the pavement to reach
the cables—the silent lines
making space and time
the between-all world
of matter-mind bridges. Still
trolls hide underneath.
dust 