Thursday, November 3, 2011

Long enough, I have cultivated fields of fog and corn, happiness
as fragile as a young bird; you don't know how long it took me
to plant this garden, and now, a sudden lack of seed.

the rows are shallow, dug with a spade. I expect too much
from a patch of earth that has never been planted
and I am watching to see what grows -- nothing
but the wild seeds blown over the wall.


I told you it is madness, a constant back and forth, upheavals, swoons, dives.
It seeps up and debilitates; watching a sunset sink into silver hills. This is nothing.

1 comment:

becca said...

i adore your writing