Poetry is sometimes too much with us,
always tangling underfoot. Like kudzu
or parachuting dandelion fluff
we superstitiously disperse with puffs,
poetry can go wild, turn weed, its niche
become the whole global ecology.
O Peoples of the Earth, hear me on this!
Poetry clings to everything. We can’t
hack back its proliferating nodes, trap
its encapsulated seeds, which survive
the seasons, germinate in pavement cracks,
on distant rooftop tar. Poetry thrives
off CO2 & every breath released.
We must live with it, with the change it brings.
***
In Beauty is the Memory of the Flesh