Everyone wants to feed everyone else.
Piled in back alleys, bread greens
antibiotics of its soft centers,
money foments yeast reaching the moon,
change turns into silverfish kids drop
gum for. We cast it on these waters.
We turn rubber into trees, flowers,
make a cow of loose leather, a sow’s ear
of a ruined purse, we change wine to blood,
bread into flesh, as if there were no tomorrow
we change men into women, alter the course
of the stars, we try to beat the odds.
The odds remain; the chances come and go.
Peace in the backwoods is deep in that nature
we long since baptized and confessed to
we wanted out. Now that we are free of the woods,
we try making that forest for the future
in the city where there’s no tomorrow.