Of wedging my soul into your contexts
I am tired. If I want to drink milk,
let me drink milk; take away your wine
and your green and red bottles
and your tasting parties.
I want to think about the spreading fingers of the trees
and their flung-limbed love of God.
I want to lay my spine down on the grass and consider the clouds.
I would even rather crouch beside a city curb
and examine the cold spiked texture of cement
than hear another word of air from your wide mouths.
What have you gained, in laying out the world
the way you have,
threading it through the buttons of your eyes,
grinding the mysteries of God into a string
of sausages? I’m tired of the works of your hands
and the labors of your minds.
You have uprooted a garden of graces
for the sake of reinvention:
for smelling mud-flowers and swamp-wading’s weary joys.