Additional Credits:
Late upon the grooves
of flaking summer, shredded
couplets pile beneath a glaring
lack of star. Unspoken
is one word dangling
like rotten fruit upon a limb
waiting to become earth again
among the hyacinth
and the peppered moss, between
the humid whistle of cicadas
where fingers move to tear
a name – two letters to a scrap –
a name and every ugly iamb quilled
waiting for that word to drop,
to flutter through the spaces
we have known and shatter
into soil, a billion silver pinpricks cast
against the black matter of the earth
bright against the endless dark.
Sown once
it could flower in its proper season
cascade against the glaring lack of star.
