what my nose knows

like manure in a rose garden

unspeaking

like a yawn that makes your fingertips tingle just before you slumber

there’s this shapelessness within me

hopes tempered by dread I dream

when I sit by the stream I don’t wonder what i’ve done to deserve it’s trickle

what bitter truth for baby birds that no one can learn to fly for them

how tempting it is to blame others for the loneliness of life

the degree to which I am able to grieve

in the same way

does the germinating seed resent the surface?