sprouts crack the surface of the marsh  

odd plants
drop seeds in the night & 
carried in winds grace
write new life 
from old tomes

small strips of wood pulp float down river 
tadpole bloom whirring clouds
in the pond 
& new flowers
come by to visit
every morning

the boys kick up dust in a tried lot 
knowing thirst well 
pushing gears tiresome lengths
& summer afternoons 
are a drunken heat
an accumulation of small cuts
& they call those plants
that break the concrete

out north the hallway window
a creeping jungle 
in daily flux 
& for all land surrounding
that will see an arid year 
this plot
just short an acre
framed in chainlink  

across town
young strangers to the block
squat below the cherry blossom 
breaking down grams
drop offers in passing

& women 
with their shoulders 
popping out shirt collars,
ratty denim clutching hips
I turn my nose

It's spring
The kids are fucking
The birds are fucking
singing summer
& I stick to an old bet
that never quite materializes
but I've seen the flowers
with small blue petals & golden spots
somewhere out here
in the traps of some

& I could cross another man
at the drop of a hat
with you
& that little 
black dress-
in sun
& trace form
in stolen glances
25 years old
warmth of god
you always had
with you

double cross you-
cut me down in the brush 
by the railroad tracks 
where I first 
found balance 
& let these bones 
join mangled sticks 
in the swampy trough
feed the soup to my youth
let him taste the sour that this city bring
& know well
who sewed that life

They're down on eternity row
swinging chains in their hands
clutching blades in pockets
tearing up the countryside
laying poison
rigging traps for coyote
culling the deer
the long game
but the city men 
don't know the long game
like the weeds 
& I.
trick about 
the long game,
no man could ever win
only buy 
a little time

shut the windows 
sit down at the desk 
& bury my nose

another day