Sick Georgic

Fatherhood dead

smokestack collapsed on the river flats

black pollen ash pollen wind

I failed at saving

cores and rinds, 60 lb. bin

of vomit soup poured out

on the overgrowth

shame likewise                cannot be

reabsorbed into the cycles

                                              I am ranked

at every molting

by snuffers, high on wick smoke

They use my tongue my teeth keep walking 

              away away poor fork

              poor fork away

flakes of soft wood float down,

tick dry leaves—

woodpecker knocking a dead trunk

muffled uncanny

as a scene with the sound off

as the dream of thick vines

pushing out of tear ducts

dry from disuse