To be human is to be the meat—
rare & vicious in each meniscus.
The eyelid floats a blink’s runoff, bats at
one yipping dog tethered to a weathered tree.
No matter how sweetly they play, an animal
wonders at its master like a stranger. Friends,
there is much to consider. The sun
doesn’t burn the wind & why would it?
Water won’t wash any old thing clean.
Politicians bind, will be bound & heckle
crowds as words tear peopled frames.
They’ll be our natives. With all we can stand,
we’ll sing & be counted— floorboard planks
in a November afternoon’s porch of flies.