Andrew David King

Silo Sonnet Silver-rust silos lean as if to launch like chromed hourglasses through the stratosphere, gold snow of pollen. Thin ladders ensconce their bald metal domes, monks tonsured of hair. These rockets, they have pillared in the earth all heavy thoughts of flight, carved of them roots— seeds winnowed from the husk, lifted from dirt; the daily bread, insufferable food. A gorgeous recklessness haloes the boys who climb up to the chamber, churn the wheat, and when the quicksand takes one as its choice the others seize his wrists, pray as he sinks. The tabernacle, locked, will not upend. Small“Andrew David King”

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