buried

i've decided to bluster
smash a small chair, be bold
once and
then retire to
drunken equanimity
wriggling the fish through
the net one last time
freedom, and then the pan,
how lovely is that
freedom- deboned and
popping the olives pressed
to sear, a holy land flowering
calamity,
so so long in the sun the
farm land fits in to the palm of the
hand, pushed together the
hands mostly remember to plead,
and mostly forget to open and receive.