Untitled
by Wyatt Potter
—for Heather and CJ
I lean my weighty head
On her manure-smelling overcoat
and his books and bands.
Many are sinking
and diving towards the murky bulwark tide.
Affluent flophouse
mercurial tele-worlds and drop-outs
succumbing to no longer-nature
The empty rails and gravel ghosts of the great American highway
spread iron meridians county to county.
Connecting lines from cracked cement to damp clay;
This affirming verdant undergrowth feeds two sturdy Chestnuts,
a Birch, and a Maple.
Radiant as a blazing sky they stand, and sustain my limbs in transitional bliss-
closer to the earthen odor.
In shade, this tranquil vanguard pushes against metal coles with lacquered strength-and against indifference with a supreme love.
Whatever is to be built
and what may never know branch or scaffold I will give thanks to all that is here
for it is all that needs remain.