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