Justin Cocke Poems

A schism, one without documentation,
one that must be merely supposed from the tattered patchwork given,
befell the primordial Living, ripped it from itself
so that species—the residue from that split—would one day
...

To-day's wounds are still
hot with memory from the deathwork on me,
and my faith in everything beyond to-morrow has too-soon been worked-down to a nub.
But see! The labor that works over and against me is itself not the end,
...