Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Nouveau, Riche

across the street,
the purposed
row of old boxelders 
stands—

popular, still-
leafless, a battalion of bare 
limbs offering fluke safe-
harbor to secret 
upstart colonies

of clover, creeping
charlie, springy 
tufts of wild
violets!

—and as yet, it's 
only there in 
dirt and 
dim and secret 
pregnancy of scraggy shadow

that blossoms mad and 
unsubstantiated            
this new love
of the unhusbanded;

remember what 
another upstart said once:

a weed is just
a flower growing
not because 
you say so.

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