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Wild garbage

September 10, 2012

The pickaxe met

glass, it crunched into

cracked earth, and the geese

did not notice. They

saw nothing of that city block,

saving their v-shaped

precision for the

country more pristine than

Oakland. I took

 

a moment. I took

a sip of cold coffee, and

admired the hole that

I’d put into the earth. I took

a gander that there

was no one on the

other side of the

fence, and I took off

my shirt, and I looked

 

at the place where the

geese had been, and

thought that, maybe,

someone should write

a poem about garbage –

an elegy for filthy

panes and empty

vessels, for what’s left

over and discarded

 

directly beneath us,

while we lean

back to admire the

heavens. I could not

write that poem. I could

not look at the

garbage, because

too many hours remained

in the day, too much

earth needed to be

moved, and

the sun was cracking

my stiff back,  and my

dirt-crusted

arms and legs. For

 

once I was grounded,

and I watched words and

meaning pass

overhead like geese.

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