Artificial
There is poison inside of the tattered weed
& the trash in the roadside ditch,
generic birdmusic sourceless
(where?) I think in the brush the wet frogs
throat more of the same
with less derivation, rain,
the asphalt beading oil, the washoff
moaning through a metal culvert;
I’ll stop awhile and splurge;
plumes of dill ululate in the
sodium green breeze, the sidereal consumption
that void, the sky; do not defer from it,
expend into it; I hear a faint frequency
in the clouds, near the speakers and
the hanging panels of a false ceiling,
the noise is barely background,
un-tapped desire is encoded there,
all of the hype swallowed and gagged,
it costs too much
& my resource is too small in the
spasming sumac bending,
where the unseen source of music
plays and I let go finding it;
