Reflections on Logan's circle
Today we move in jade and cease in garnet,
and maybe yesterday we tried to stem the seeds
with teeth held in unseemly hands; still I can’t forget
the scream of a root ripped from its heavy seam.
“It seems like they never see me,” says the grizzled
man, slowly seething, watching grassy children splay
secrets on hills where cold bodies warm benches, the bristles
of his uncouth beard seasoned by the wind, the dark day,
and I foresee there will always be park-bench bodies
ignored as if diseased, always tires rolling and trash
seeking warmth, always fools parading their follies,
always beggars in sepia buried without epitaphs.
Still we slice the soup kitchen’s half-rotten sweet potato;
still, with bent heads touching ceilings, we try to grow.