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
weeds
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
bursts
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
before
in the traps of some
half-night
& I could cross another man
at the drop of a hat
with you
& that little
black dress-
transparent
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
cursing
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
gone