17 January, 2020
bitter from all the milkweed
hope, in its before-form,
is only a measure of protection
i swallow, drink from wind.
how i squash that same old, same old
tamp it down with the tin.
maybe it’s best to not turn from the truth
but truth is really just what sticks best
like beggar’s lice hitching a ride
to the next field over, delicate
in its grabbing.
yesterday, i sanded
and i admit, i like to feel useful,
worries smoothing out with the grain.
what passes through my hands
the tremble between the wing
and the thorn— truer
than true still.