I do not know the language
of threading terror –
words that leap like
fleas upon the trusty dog.
This usage is beyond all
playground shouting,
Backroom brawling is now
in the spectator’s vision.
No scope is needed to
identify the telltale white –
underside, wing-bar, rump,
all plainly seen.
The grass in winter is
parched and bleached and
covered with snow.
The descent down this
hill of misconception is
like driving the subzero
on a salt-free road,
headlights at your rear,
the spinning and gliding,
out of control.
This is how they neutralize
you, words of venom
pretending to endear.
The greatest generation
has yet to come,
it will not be addicted
to parading or guns.
To know that formal feeling-
the settling of dirt,
the breathing of the soil
the scattering of earth,
to recognize the harrier
swooping near the field,
each dot of life is crucial,
each ember lighting joy
when all is seen as vital,
the lagniappe is our own.
3/2018
Anne's mediocre poetry 