Talking back to the mad world

I will not tend. Or water,
pull, or yank,
I will not till, uproot,

fill up or spray.

The rain comes.
Or not. Plants: sun-fed,
moon-hopped, dirt-stuck.

Watch as flocks
of wild phlox

appear, disappear. My lazy,
garbagey magic
makes this nothing
happen.

I love
the tattered
camisole of
nothing. The world
runs its underbrush
course fed by
the nothing I give it.

Wars are fought.
Blood turns.
Dirt is a wide unruly room.