Weed-Whacker

one of the glorious, unappreciated insects of god
like the mark or absence of love 
an electric toothbrush or mosquito hawk in the bathtub
whose poetry lies not in writing but in living
just as crows soar unformed by words   
then one yellow leaf in a blue chair
while numbers take pity on us 
and do not forsake our wild
unquantifiable natures, our imprecision
the fervent wish to let dirt stay alive
alongside the faint rusty sound of a circular saw
paradise opens its arms

Meredith Stricker | If I Get Lost >>
Contents | Mudlark No. 54  (2014)