Out, Side

Beyond and beside
the major lines of
inquisition, there
swifts a place whose
wings are personal,
individual, and too
closely held by the
others who happen
to be fletching as 
well. Growth and
not too large. Over
grown and not too
hard. I am a weed,
not cultivated, a 
product of a vacuum
whose space over
whelms its times.
And the pressure
to become full 
again may not
overcome my 
sluices. A little
comes through
at a time, a little
water and a little
dime. I eat a little
and call that the
length of the day.