unprincipled
this is the way things could be done
and i want you to know
that this silvery birch
and frozen thrush
are in cahoots
working together
to shelter
and feed scraggly babies
from the gnats and grubs
who live nearby
this counts as salvation
we linger in polar despair
even when we’re up to our
knees satisfied
bottomless subterranean wanting
struggling to imagine
that someone will
some tiny kindness will
feed us from the fetid
morsels that surround us
a sullen dwelling exchange
of our never there
for our ghostly here
the newborn cries a furtive
fortunate version of us
beaks and jaws wide as sunlight
not minding if rain gets in
or washes away the left over
sludge that we splattered
in our indecision
not awake enough to stroke
a line a curve a color
to mean or stand for
some hanging thread
that fragrances unwavering
we stilted without scent
a fragment yielding shape
the dinner bell alarms
our stomachs and annoyances
forcing us to flee the canvas
demanding payment
a reckless withdrawal
of trees stripped to their roots
still hungry still sating