by Daniel Clark 

Higher Ground

I wonder if we saw with our own eyes
old gods or stencilled words peeled
off signs like laughter torn

from smirking lips. Smiles wind
through knotted homes past strangers
bolted into gardens lined with petunias

and regret. We bury guilt with pristine
hands, learn to trace cities so green
we mistake concrete for soil. Roots

never emerge alone, invisible
until we bring them, gasping, into air.


Back to the Sound

Low road through the roots
That slouch like snow receding into silence.

We never learned the script
In anticipation of repetitions in anticipation

Of renewal. We listened
For a sign winter might be over –

An onion, perhaps,
Able to strip its own layers like half-landed notes

Sheared off sonatas.