Lindsay Daigle Fate


And now it’s covered

with leaves. He sure speaks

slowly. It’s cold this morning.

In the meantime nothing happens.

Only the jumping, barrel-gripped

patience, keeping our hats on.

I’ll give him a carrot. He’ll describe

the tree as it falls down, calls it

orphan. He should have been a poet.

Quell the failed compost. It smells

of friction and flint. Of climbing

heaven and gazing on the likes

of us, our make-believe

boots, our blood. Oh rising

ground, metal-methods,

speak slower.

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