If I Had Carrots
The
dream often progresses as such: if I had a fresh tilled garden than this maw
of yard would tame. A few raised beds
like sentences spoken against a silent
field. And if I had a good enough fence
I could grow thick-knuckled orange carrots.
Pull them out by their green hair still raining
earth before the quiet deer, and gophers
had gnawed any green hope away. But that’s
what it’s like sleeping on the porous edge
of a dark wood. You claim a small square, tend
it then succumb, watch what was there recede
understand you can’t tame what was never yours.
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