Foreign Plants Grow Between My Toes

I couldn’t name a sparrow

from a line-up of birds 

nor tell you what

the ants dancing in my summer yard

do after dark 

or before it or 



I couldn’t confess

which flowers 

bloom forth

from my soul 

today—I’d have

to look them up. 


Most of the Romantics 

are lost on me; 

they mutter mostly fantasy,

as their worlds slip along

hazily half-destroyed 


and gone 


I’ve not attended the 

drifting of lilies 

atop oil-black waters,

nor realized the croak coral

of a toad (or is it a frog?) 

as the moon stands up.


And this morning 

bled through the blinds,

like any other,

cooing with

more of the same:

nothing rosy-fingered,

I’d say. 


I cannot perform it. 

I’m penned in

by red brick

gray moss

sleeping skeletons with sound in heads

laborless jobs

data, data, data

sweet, fremd bird songs

and nothing known at all.

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