millipede under
the lip of my rock
curling into a question mark
as i stand to go
among mountain laurel blossoms
their sticky white cups
falling in the drought-stricken woods
with audible ticks
we’ve had a taste of rain
the moss is soft underfoot
the breeze carries the despairing
rage of a pair of birds
watching their children die
in the sunless tunnel of a snake
who is presumably savoring
her only meal of the week
knowledge of good and evil
extracts a terrible toll
while two trains
meet at a crossing
two broken chords disharmonizing
clear to high heaven
the way my two grandmothers
sometimes meet in me
the strident one
and the contemplative one
on bad air days when everyone
else also sees
this achingly beautiful planet
through a veil of ash
and i don’t know how it seems
to extraterrestrial visitors
but on earth the truth is bitter
it’s an acquired taste
