reciprocity

brittle hope poems into feathers

of this morning flexing many periods.

refinding light and turning

to face it the clock on the wall is terrible

and the salt and pepper shakers only wait

to be empty. flowers rise to our fingers

and we must learn to let them fall

like wanting to do the right thing

without doing it, fix war by tipping

a daisy into the barrel of a gun as days

knuckle through the steam sulking over

the fields that plough the farmer when

the farmer ploughs the fields.