Pocks

When the bending turns to broken,

the burning to burnt,

the falling to fallen,

when the ground is at a new low and your ear is on it,

the landscape is at eye level, flat with only grains of sand and broken leaves,

there are pocks, 

little holes that catch the sun

so that it turns in them all day long, lighting up the marks of deterioration where

sediment has washed and scoured until little holes

have developed in the little holes,

and there it is again,

the universe in almost nothing.