I pace an iron ground.
Oaks stand as monuments to a relentless soil
where paths once beckoned to the forest.
Every branch bears some mite and
every mite some phage
in spontaneous generation from the despoiled dark
That sloppy veneer carrying currents of half-life metals
emits pesky questions like sparks from the welder’s gun
toward our debonair indifferences
swept into the savage winnings of card sharp compositors
Nitrogen now bubbles from toiled roots
I’ll be panting from some busted ionic bond
Whoever manages a barricade to bring a moratorium to the world’s madness
rings out and we shout back in chordate solidarity
Dear oaks
Don’t stand in my way.
Let me have that silken kiss of stone
This poem was published in Dumbo Press on March 3, 2024.
Andy Oram
March 17, 2020