Justice

The Sun
Has no explaining
Nor does the long grass
The angle
The path
They’ve permitted

Justice
I won’t require
Or hold feet to the fire
Of the Squirrel
Stealing, running
From my garden

a fortiori

Why the grown hawk would struggle on
The wind
I cannot know

I've seen it, though
And desiring
To help things along for regalness sake

I reached up on high
In prayer
To see burden lifted, compass-mark found

Estopped

We thought ourselves so slick
In possession
Of some golden grasp
Reserved

We'd dig and dig
And defy getting dirty
Except our hands
Covered

Nobody knew
Or none would tell
Then one day
Busted