Monday, July 15, 2013



There can be no untangled thing,
even a stone that pulls neatly

from the dirt has lived complicatedly,
worms have swum past it for years,

and died, and the soil has grown
a bit more acidic. Where is the center,

this is the question we ask, but really,
we mean, it is us, isn’t it. What edges

do we aim to gather up, what picnic
blanket, what park. One day, this planet

will cure itself of all of us, we have
never not suspected this. We hold hands

with thousands of people, genetic
acquaintances, the builders of our

cities, not-yet-born neighbors who
find our buried dogs’ bones, Ring

Around the Rosie is in eternal session,
each single stem a bouquet, orbiting.


  1. I know I always say this but this is one of my favorites. "what picnic blanket, what park"

  2. Love "each single stem a bouquet". Lovely poem.

  3. O my never cease to amaze...I had a sigh of relief when I heard the earth relieving itself of us...

  4. This is fabulous and profound; "One day the planet will cure itself..." and
    holding hands with thousands - genetic acquaintances - wondrous


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