of knots and thorny greens, purge

my gums until all my words run clear.

When expecting the hoe to strike

glacial till at any time, nerves numb;

blood performs its prickly retreat. Still,

every evening the news is an attack.

Politicians eschew masks, fidget with

faces as they broadcast our sacrificial

itineraries. Nurseries shut down but no

one plants the guts of peppers, the punky

eyes of potatoes, crowns of half-rotted

pineapples. Cyclists ride and ride, heads

bared to the sun, so many early melons.

The smog clears but plastic mountains

peak. There’s marrow to harvest here

if only I were keeping such bones to roast.