Neverside

In The Groove

The lines of hands
Are like long rivers past moist fields
Plowed roundly, churning soil,
The dirt of human time.
But on a longer scale,
The lines of hands
Are like deep gouges,
Unfilled strip mines
Where the earth and the water
Quarreled for millenia in passing.
Pale grained rocks grow
Smaller at the whisking
Frothed into sand by the wind
And these elderly children of stone
Hum along on the breeze,
The slight bounce of a needle
In the groove of a vinyl desert.