It came from the fear of abyss, the excess of hoards, toadstools of desolate tyranny, choking—
the comments, scrolling,
we ingest the arsenic, pain-killers
of reversal, fiddling with
twigs of fire—the sweltering
squeal
of
life.
We belong to the sparrows,
and they to us. The lilies,
our sisters, and yet,
we are so fearful of animism
we shrink away from altruism
as if we too may become
a parasite on the backs of
a sweaty mother heifer.
Do not don the cap of Dostoevsky:
underground, alone, and elitist.
How can I hear the banjo by
only it’s strings and not it’s plucker?
Teach me how to cry
with the aristocratic widow.
We each pluck lilies,
one-by-one,
by one.
Our mouths crease, a wrinkle in
the memory or strain, and only
the forces of wind and dust
frighten the sky into
a pattern of time and geography
by the exact idea that it
only must.
