on a line from Amy Leach’s “Things That Are” I have never made a flower, never have I pressed myself through dirt, me as
A bat drags its broken wing along the pavement flutter-kick flutter-kick and I can do nothing. Its fur is a glossier brown than I’d
Tickling my calves as I step along the side of the road, purple-tinged panicle with a point like a witch’s broom, not quite ready
The grass has added tent to its vocabulary The air: shuttlecock And the lowest limbs of the crabapple: boy Published in Cider Press