Saturday, November 23, 2013

Saturday commute xciv: one's own chariot

  On the path to the water, I found an ugly weed
  growing between rocks. The wind was stroking it,
  saying, 'My weed, my weed.' Its solid,
  hairy body rose up, with big silver leaves
  that rubbed off on me, like sex. At first,
  I thought it was a lamb's ear, but it wasn't.
  I'm not a member of the ugly school,
  but I circled around it and looked a lot,
  which is to say, I was just being, and it seemed to me -
  in a higher sense - to represent the sanity of living.
  It was twilight. Planets were gathering.
  'Mr Weed,' I said, 'I'm competitive,
  I'm afraid, I'm isolated, I'm bright.
  Can you tell me how to survive?'

Henri Cole
Pierce the Skin
  Selected Poems 1982 - 2007
  My Weed
Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2010©

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