waking up
the first few golden fingers
glow on uncut grass
one hundred thousand crooked steeples
parishioners en masse
no stranger at these altars
all their unfamiliar sizes
microbial populations
offering excuses
people use to think ourselves
down from tops of trees
and onto thrones
those same golden fingers
reach through chloroplasts
that with a bend of light
possess another reason
we cannot yet die
without feeding on them
while they feed on us
asking we believe in seasons
we already know from dust
will confiscate
an endless plate
of years from which
we cannot pick
I need there to be something
slow enough
to hold on to these terms
that is sensible to touch
to heat
that can sit with all this
immolation
the boundaries of which
might be called
surrender
rendering
fat and marrow
muscle skin and bone
more than things
a government works
until exhaustion
a surrender
sent from somewhere
that to watch it coming
means one would go blind
but witnessing it land
takes far more than the eyes
surrendering a throne
to kneel
before these hundred thousand
crooked steeples
no taller than my biggest toe
where
golden fingers
peel back the blue from hedgerows
careful not to linger long enough
the night
might be convinced to stay
leaving the sleeper
to awake and witness
over everything
a light that says
wake up—the garden is on fire
you should be out here dancing
between flowers and the flames
Maroon Almanac 