by Jake Reynolds

Can such delights be in the street, / And open fields, and we not see’t?
–Robert Herrick

I rock up against the banks
in the shore of my sleeping
when a cluster of pollen
tricks its way into my bedroom
like smelling salts.

The graveyard soil is rich
for obvious reasons
and the squirrels know it.
They dance around trees
piercing enemies on rails.

Between us is a road.
That has always been the case
when I talk about something.
I walk out
carrying a small nest of tables.

I cannot bake
but I give it a try.
I dig my hands
into the earth
to smell its iron success.

Fifty people sit on the road,
eating under the hailstones.
I hear whispers of gridlock
and it makes me feel peaceful.

What a day I could make of this
if everything wasn’t so hell-bent
on things ending.

I tie twelve belts together
and hurl them at a streetlight.
It was supposed to be a maypole
but looks like ownership
or privatisation.

I bet squirrels have secret processions.
Something about them screams pageantry.
I want someone to crown a Queen
on the sacred land of the village green.

Keep cooking. Order food in.
My sister was born in May.
She even took its name.
Tell me that isn’t a miracle.
Point to that young woman.
This month is a miracle.

Featured image via

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