I am looking at the ground more often these days.
I am contemplating, no, no, I am complicating
In an unintended, no, no, intended—rather, in
A tended furrow hidden beneath its overlapping fabric.
I am an interwoven patch, or a thread—
A segmented thread buried in the patch,
Or a posed shadow lurking for an impeccable time
To spring out when my Tailor tills his tale.
Christian Kenseth is from Foxboro, MA. He has completed two years at UMass Amherst and is in New York for the summer or, if things pan out, longer. He is twenty-one years old, writes poetry and prose, and currently works at a falafel hut where shawarma and the like pan out on a minimum hourly basis. Despite the detracting presence of these tasty omens, he plans on furthering his academic validation elsewhere shortly, probably prosaically chronicling the process each impatient step at a time. To close with the reverberations of his Great Uncle's voice:"...The poem does not simply urge; 'Think on these things.' It pushes us into the fray." (Arnold Kenseth, Poems of Protest Old and New)