Already the cart paths
have chipped,
sprouted ankle-high
weeds green as
the goose shit spotting
constellations on the asphalt.

The brush has turned
the tin-roof shed
into a rusted secret.

Only a few yards away,
men scatter like pill bugs
to their polished trucks.

How long can a rock
keep its head up?

Stop for a breath
and the earth pulls
you back into her breast
and covers you
in moss and blossoms.

This is the struggle
of a species handed
machetes at birth.

Perhaps we set down
the blades, let things
fall together, stop
being ashamed
of kissing our mother
on the cheek.