by Daniel Clark
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.