poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

Weed Life

Walking these worded woods

without a path, wading the underbrush

of unfocused images without footprints

almost as if we were small birds in fly-by

we know the task authors leave for us

beside a pile of lumber and bricks

a wheelbarrow, a bag or two of cement

the poems aren’t unfinished but unread

at least this morning by this tethered mind

wandering the lines with some resentment

while skimmed emails, articles, song lyrics

hover resisting the call of in-gathering, regrouping

these lines invite but can’t require

cannot alone grow small birds

into hungry hawks and eagles

carrying away rabbits, cats, chickens

whose parts they reassemble into wing and claw

tasks their prey cannot do for them

Ukrainian grain harvested resting in silos

war-stalled hundreds of sea miles

from hungry African families

yet to be, perhaps never to be

ground to flour, baked to bread

blessed consumed reviving

regardless, we are also weed life

lakes driven past glimpsed out a half-fogged window

chatter fragments overheard in noisy restaurants

dreams slept through to forgetting

their tracks can be found on us

years later in afterthought

as cling-on memory fragments

to more invested dreams

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