Cocooned beneath
That glacier capped peak
A magma-powered bomb
Sets and resets its own trigger
Old growth forests
Shroud scars of bygone doom
Deliberating over hues of
Misting falls and permanence
Below we navigate
The gentle drizzle of flipped coins
Picking our way through
puddles of heads and tails
-T. Weeks
(A response to “To a Common Prostitute”)
Life Immense 