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.