Weeds

PEI Morning Dew in August

The green and wet belies the drought
cracking the lips of the city to the south.
This garden at the shoulder of the road stretches on carelessly
rambling beyond my view and past the curve of the road, feral, untended.

Discarded coffee cups and crumpled cigarette packs,
rough mulch at the base of mad clumps of wildly blooming goldenrod and bullrush grasses and dandelions.

As I turn the wheel and leave this leafy lane, the harvest bounty of this roadside ditch fades from my thoughts,
graying like the damp memories of my years before the city.

And once again that thrilling song of tires on pavement
draws me ever southward to lights and noise
to sun and rock and the arid rivers of asphalt that flow across it all, pulling.

But oh, I would stay a while in this weed-strewn spot and
sip dew from a clover.

WONDER

My body, under his fingers

finds its true form,

meat on bone. A slab

of flesh on a table.

His hands dig and push

more meat tenderizer 

than tender manipulation.

I lie here thinking of sinew and bone and muscle.

Being flesh and wondering

about the spark that ignites, the breath that flows

the ideas made word and thought

in the meat on the table.