She’s stung with resentment like nettle-slapped girl’s legs

in summer all year, how many years, not leaving out of here.


So often, mud sucks at her feet saying, Squandered. But still

there are a few trout lilies, blossoms down-turned,


heads dropped, faces hidden. Those who don’t try to show,

and see something in this dirt. Wild flowers tend to themselves


while all people plant these days are satellite dishes.

Their necks crane in crazy directions to get any shot at the sky,


some signal from far off.