Ruptured

I sense the movement of spiders and beetles in the

            grass

there’s a simple

synchronicity

all the movements of thousands of

            unrelated parts

            composing an accidental choir

                        of natural

dissidence

the grass grows above my head and

            fades into the sky in a

            gentle skyline

there’s buzzing in my ears and the

            grass seems to move under me it’s

            so full of

life

maybe the grass stalks tie me to the ground

            they taste sweet

                        jointed like boney spectators

harmonious growth and death and regrowth

            I feel the strata of archeological

            abundance springy

                        under my back

you always know the sounds aren’t

            natural

            not because they’re loud

                        birdsong can be deafening

no

it disturbs the dissident melody

            it arrived late to the practice

            attempted to slip in unnoticed

but we hear it

            and huddled like rabbits in our

                        miniature burrow

I remember when I was ten or twelve

            the sanctuary of a small cave

                        in the grass

            smell of wild rose bushes

                        bird poop and soil mingling

coolness of the ground in summer

            clothed in thick grass draperies

you are cutting everything to pieces

            loud sound shaking the beetles

            and spiders off their stems

                        they fall and seek

hiding

Watership Down

            fear  smell of death with

            motor oil and gas

                        too afraid to do anything but

shiver

in hiding

trees in the wind weeping at our grave

            you fool of an alder

            only beech trees should weep

                        silver tears that make the Silver Springs

                        this place is named for

I hear the crack of lumber

            when alder bark is split

            it’s fleshy wood turns red like

blood

forget-me-nots have always been

            my favorite flower

                        love of history

                        rings of a tree only show when it’s

                        cut down

we can have false memories

            distorted

            tell three versions or a billion

            of the same past – Rashomon

or maybe there are

            a thousand histories I don’t

know

the only history I know is you crying over the

            cut grass