Nature Morte
​
Those little balls of jelly
Promises of birdsong
Don’t exist
Are not a memory
Tending to them
In a chemical garden
As if my prodding could ever
Move their blood
Uncrush their heads
Give them back
To gone mother
​
​
I walk on newly born grass
Hoping a meteorite won’t step
On my own son
He’s just a baby I plead
The mint blades don’t die
Without a fight at least
They’re willing to pardon
My mistakes in lust
But meld to each other
With own blood and spit
Led by the planets
Becoming rock
