Wednesday, July 14, 2010


by Peter Campion

After the cling of roots and then the “pock”
when they gave way
the recoil up the hand
was a small shock
of emptiness beginning to expand.

Milk frothing from the stems. Leaves inky green
and spiked.
Like blissed-out childhood play turned mean
they snarled in tangled curls on our driveway.

It happens still. That desolating falling
shudder inside and then our neighborhood
seems only sprawling
loops... like the patterns eaten on driftwood:

even the home where I grew up (its smell
of lingering wood-smoke and bacon grease)
seems just a shell
of lathe and paper. But this strange release

follows: this tinge like silver and I feel
the pull of dirt
again, sense mist uncurling to reveal
no architecture hidden behind the world
except the stories that we make unfolding:

as if our sole real power were the power
of children holding
this flower that is a weed that is a flower.

No comments: