New leaves strive in the rite of exchange
take the place of blossoms even if they
don't bear fruit there are so many flowers
hanging above the cold ground down down
onto the memory of winter's tomb resting
on tomorrow's rooftop dashing away
gas the countrymen spray into the pushing crowd
marks where the land breaks faces
burning hot cheeks eyes mouths
weeds needing killing. Pulling. Before sunset.
Rolling razor wire someday we’ll be sitting
at a table remembering how and saying why.