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.