Apr 3, 2006


We sleep even
as figures march
through snow
or dust to enact

The new grass
hammers at topsoil.
The world doubles
over in the pain
of its own birth,
long face beset
by everything
that tumbles from
metal-colored skies.

Anxiety forges
a crown of wrens
around the mind.
May my death
never come.
Still--I am
a plant like all the rest.

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