Clatter
There is a tree pressed against my window.
In its earth it holds our loud, playful tasks-
Driving cars, screaming kids, tongues of Indo-
Europeans in the nook, no one asks.
Finding the slight curves on your own loins
after a meal, how the weight changes its
all comparing, this metallic grid joinsÂ
the misdirection, a caterpillar hits
chalked cement under grocery cart wheels
and more skin- we see less the more we look.
We scream the world is not our own- it steals
paper, ice, good- I listen to the tree unhook.
Damn the oil that ran off all edges
And stained the paper gold.
278th Weekly Poetry Contest