Forage my language, partner.
Forsythia is tired of poetry
I am full of my own
idealized forms, that's why I could never grow
anything up north. Schizandra berry and bitter melon salad,
other people's goods. Go on your own limb
like you want it so bad
and no one gives it up
or looks you in the eye.
& if you were disguised as a pile of weeds, if you were exotic.
But the forces of nature aren't soliloquies.
“Betty went down there, well she did and she didn't”
& the murmuring delicacies at the end
of statements or scenery never complete what they set out to say
never mend the raiment while it's being worn, being and worn
& these soft verbs and accessories, like a footbridge caught
on its foot; please dangle at your own leisure.
Please, this train is gone. Please, jumping will shift your location
just so. Think in terms of.
& my leisure is unhemmed, and I'm going to be
the next big gardener. Don't ask for plans, for rhythm. Ask me
where the living is
.
© 2006 Julie Choffel