by David Ackley

Ground does not quake underfoot

when sole strikes, okay

but there is palpable contact

pressure, a sort of karmic confirmation

of equivalence.


Mirrored, are those not

eye, nose, base, superstructure?

A congregation

of hairs, shaved? Spit spat?

Snot blown? Shit flushed?


Greeted and departing,

are those lips not his, kissed?

Well, then, inter alia, de-facto,

does he not exist?


Is that not  money,

in his envelope?

(Okay, bits

Or bytes,  transmitted—

a number on account)

because to this place work

with phonings, meetings

screening, busy fingers sending

someone named him comes?


At the end of the day,

at the end of the day,

the bottom line is

particles across

gaps held by forces:


yearning across particles