we quarrel as if bound in sensual fashion;
the water of the lake evaporates,
exposing the ravenous weed
that fills every open space.
the fearless pigeons no longer guardian our days;
they sit and squabble blindly in driving spaces,
under limbs and into shadow, and they leap to flight
when machines roll past or just over them.
we skirt the puddle, the smallest sparrow sitting still;
concerned she will not move fast enough, we react,
fear, groan, curse, sigh relief and steer slowly past
what we think is easily destroyed, forgetting the wings.
i/we/they - shatter like bombs, with microscopic horror,
lacking physical damage but managing a great and sudden
rending of flesh, tears and saliva while pressing close
every ounce of the fool’s end.
when through, our lungs fill with sweet surrounding;
muscles untense, eyes close, mouths soften, teeth are hidden,
bodies are laid open or tucked in blankets, hands stroke sweat
from hair, and hair dries in an oblong slope, skin cools as
generators reset to a common pace.
toes uncurl, grass lengthens, trees ripen, the lake fills fresh;
below the surface, the weed nurtures itself with brackish felt
that lines the lower pockets where instinct is nestled,
set to spring forth with sublime and resilient