Generation
Of all the greens in the world
under gas soaked walls
I can still gather the smell
of ramshackle, holed up in there
nose close to the previous generation
buried down by the dairy,
our mother
sat us in the corner for spitting.
Of all the greens
gunboat to glade, an ormolu
one only sees in swamps,
as if a whole village built itself
of nothing but grass and chaw,
tucked as it were into the gullet,
"Although found in good authors, ... is retained,
in this country as in England, only by the illiterate."
saved for later, for the infinite
scrape of dawn bird and siren,
and nothing more than grease.
Of all the greens to spachtel a room
they chose that one, the color of hospitals.
We had no pantry or closet nor guests
and painted our shoes, yes
saved our lids and jars,
spent our pennies,
worshipped our Gods, and you?
