Maple Syrup

The sap pouring from my mind
Doesn’t always flow like milk and honey.
The gears clog and don’t unwind
Stopped by a wrench thrown
Into the cogs until they grind.

Refine this sap. Boil it down.
Heat it to two-hundred nineteen degrees
One quart from the gallons in which I drown
Now take that quart, and pour it over
The gears, slowed down by that thick brown.


I want to know what you, the reader, thinks. Consider leaving a comment and I will reply!

5 thoughts on “Maple Syrup

    1. Coming back to this piece I wish I had notes to understand where I was at that point in my life. Perhaps that is the meaning of it. This poem is the refined sap, and now here I am allowing it to be poured back into the gears at this moment. It slows me down, but also shows the refined product (if I so wish to relate a poem to capitalism).

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