Have you seen, along the road
to ruin, how each blade
of crabgrass comes topped
with a dewdrop—
a carpet made
to ruin, how each blade
of crabgrass comes topped
with a dewdrop—
a carpet made
of gems which runs toward
referenda
on the wrong?
After all, a jewel
wouldn’t be a jewel
if it hadn’t been found
in a locked vault of stone,
and a praise bell wouldn’t
make a sound at all
if it wasn’t moved
to exalt when struck—
if that which pummeled it
wasn’t also part of it
and didn’t then become
the subject of its song.
