Poetry is sometimes too much with us,
always tangling underfoot. Like kudzu
or the parachuting dandelion fluff
we superstitiously disperse with puffs,
poetry goes wild, turns weed. Its niche
becomes a whole 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 and every breath released.
We must live with the change it brings.