There is wonder in the weeds,
stallions in chicken coops where
the tame things are –
waiting, transfixed beyond the scale of our
misconceptions. Only the breathing green-
sleeves of jacketed noon ever make it
past the sifting of a targeted light.
Not everyone fears what everyone fears.
Sometimes all the berries congregate at the
bottom of the bowl, past the necessary stuff.
Sometimes we self-gift with what matters least,
except for whomever owns the mirror.
Could it be that someone pushed too
hard and a cart pulled a horse? Would that
be so bad, given the size of a cart,
the nature of a horse? Down-trodden
are the nightmares of the demure ones.
Instead, let the hunger feed its own will.
We’ll take our tea in bed.
It gets into you, like blood on cotton,
thorns in feet. They only pull when we’re not
watching. Waiting their turn to
preen the pastiche until
its awake enough to turn and
face another cautious page, inked and
waiting – where the real things are.
2 thoughts on “Where the real things are”