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
The Dog Star 
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