The seeds in the wind drift
down to the roadways,
until tires stir and sift
them back afloat.
The seeds in the wind do not
know where they’re meant for,
but all the same they soar.
There are some things that
our bodies are meant to do,
and it is tragic to see them
fail, horrible to see the seeds
crushed on the pavement.
It is easy to tend a garden if you care
to pluck the dead heads and
notice the skipping and swarming motes
of life feasting on the leaves. It is
easy to tend a garden if you
are vigilant, easy to see the
shiny stalks poke through the earth, and watch
the long buds form, burst to color, and
the petal fall. It is hard, though,
to measure the growth between the minutes.
Surely it must happen – the flowers are so tall!
But why did I notice the buds, and not
the subtle growth?
Who cares what happens to the little,
the meek, the nameless people?
They aren’t like us, they aren’t us,
let them fuss, let them starve and
let them rust. Who cares what happens in the South?
That is for the southerners, and
they aren’t like us, they aren’t us,
we tell ourselves we’re better and
it makes us feel better and
lets us think, for a moment,
that we aren’t nameless people
in the crowd that spans the globe.
50mg daily is enough
to drive away the divinity.
Two weeks of this, and
the white haze of knowing
clears, the surety of each action
passes, and the past and
future return to the void.
Two weeks of this, and,
like a lonesome cabin and the
heart beating beneath,
you will be whole and you
will remember what you have done.
I wonder if the crescent in the sky
remembers being full,
I wonder if the wings of extinct birds
ever changed the world, or
if everything that once was
may well have never been?
I wonder if the moon will wane
away into black and,
as if ordered by a judge,
will never return?
I wonder if I will ever
Seems the well ran dry, it seems the well ran dry.
The buckets come up empty and
it seems the well ran dry.
I try to think of you,
and I can’t remember your eyes,
it seems the well ran dry,
seems the well ran dry.
I wish I could hold something familiar
with sharp edges and a hateful core,
it seems the well ran dry,
there’s nothing to come here for.
I am alone in the loveliest way
twining petunias in my hair,
and cupping the showy begonias. I am
full of love in the loneliest way,
the way that wishes to share and
show something wonderful with another.
I am learning to be with others,
my tongue seeking out syllables though
it is not used to the cadence.
I am learning to be by myself,
and there’s nothing harder
in such a beautiful garden.
Deep and dark in the rich brown clay
Ten thousand red legs untouched by day
Scurry and burrow and live mindless life
Until pecked and plucked by sparrow or snipe.
What more right to life have we?
What better than ignorant grubs to be?
How can I slough off this shell,
an oyster self-shucked and
steamed by loneliness?
And why did I grow this shell
in the first place?
It did nothing against the boil,
and seems to make
the world covet my flesh.
In the game we used to play, everyone pretended
to be a character, felt their feelings and drove
their choices, and when we needed to communicate
not as pawns but as players, we coded the messages
It’s a bit like that, not knowing
exactly what you’re doing at a given moment,
waking up with mistakes you’ve made and
not remembering the past, but
dealing with the consequences and
trying to get your head on straight.
I wish I could code myself (OOC),
a brain in a jar, removed from the game,
apologetic for my choices but friendly
to my fellow players.