Weeding Long ago someone suggested that these were impliant, unpalatable, so this afternoon my spine becomes a sundial on this lawn, with my hands as tridents, sharp as gryphons' talons, pulling at fibrous tendons, stopping to wave, then to stoop again at these wisps that for all you know, or I, could turn alimentary. But the many I've missed will fill the gloves I've left on the lawn, torn antennae signalling their own schema of seeds, then bend with a gnat, mocking my ache in the beery dusk with their allegiance to night, waving at my den window with my forgotten hands. Bill Dubie |