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 sift it 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.