040306

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

                               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.