A writer writes
to rip a hole in a floor.
To find a bloom in a blight.
Because a poem startles the night
to puncture safety and its borders. It pours
into your dormant, furrowed brain to rewrite
patterns walked into the ground. Might—
vacant crucible —is like every board
rebuffing new blooms (the freight
of everything) and is exhumed. The tight
floor is safe and dying. Hoarded
seeds in the mind’s cabinet ripen
like sediment. The writer rights
pestilent fallowness. Then: words
that abuse vacant troughs with light
and uprooting hands which fight
with manic pain to erase borders
from the mind’s geography. At night,
the poem startles with fruitful blight.
Lucas Grasha currently studies poetry and German at the University of Pittsburgh. In his spare time, he reads books from his eclectic library with his wife. He proudly calls Pittsburgh his home.