worry is in trees tonight and life is
still unloved like the ten speed in the garage.
the moon, gibbous and circumspect, seems oddly
romantic. everything wears time thinner and the good life
of the grass in the yard, greedy and green,
is soft and complete. maybe each blade believes
there is something in them that speaks to god,
some rope between their pointing hearts and
the fingering gospel that sometimes cuts them
down.
in this way, the earth is just our fish
swimming in baffling humanness— turning
a peppermint with our tongues as beauty
outlasts our wanting to be beautiful.
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