Watered

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WATERED


Where might we find the tears

the world doesn’t weep? Remembered


good—sole requisite for lament

over its loss—is lost, and loss is minted


currency here, the blood of children

leached to fuel the machine


in its endless crawl towards

itself. Come, let us grieve together 


over a dead dog, bury it out back

before they try to resurrect 


it with a pill. The lie of progress

will still trill its harmonies


without a bass part, but it’s a start—

this drip off a child’s chin—


flood enough to re-cover the garden  

(or at least make us miss it again.)

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