Control sticks to carriers
And luggages through human terminals.
Those carriers are just removed from each of us, not inhuman
But distinctively between rather than a part of us.
They are not predictable, and since control rides on their coat tails…
They prevent anyone from owning their lives to the core.
We can only inhabit the skin and flesh as an inchworm might feed,
Eating its globular world of fruit.
We’re stuck like apples, waiting to rot
So our seeds can fall where they may.
May they take root, yet may they not
Take control from them, the
Gusts that occasionally sprinkle straight gravity sideways,
Nudging Newton’s down slightly off,
Settling appleseeds on fresh land to make home.
Consonant Berry 