1. Too many mornings are all wound, stringent light.

2. I look at the crepe myrtle, its peeling bark;

3. and the square of paper I nailed to the trunk, asking

4. that the person/s walking their dog/s pick up their crap.

5. I was starting to talk about that wound, the one that opens

6. like a remembrance in the side, like a flare or crossing

7. we all gape at, looking at the sky with dark-

8. shaded glasses one hot afternoon in August.

9. And yes, sometimes the slightest dropping

10. on a fringe of grass acquires the cast

11. of an injury. What to do with the unasked for?

12. I have no need to be reminded that some people

13. have absolutely no regard for others, that somehow

14. it’s easier for them to maintain some pure internal

15. plumbing, by dumping their trash elsewhere. Who

16. turns on the switch, what welds the foot to the pedal

17. as the car rams into soft bodies gathered on the road?

18. Who pulls the trigger without trembling, until empty?

19. If they could, they would have the grass arrested. They talk

19. and talk boundaries, undoing and erasing to suit their whims.


In response to Via Negativa: Presence.

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