Turn

your spiked skull, follower

of the sun, 
your scaly throat

coughing seeds to catch a slim wind.

Seeds as light as sun rays
yet weighted

enough by gravity

to never quite be air.


Blonde granary, your thorny ruff

a blighted scarf, a seed-stash,

in the jungle we call a garden
down a bank under telephone wires

you cut

a strange figure 
your seeds alone

spinning

into their own eternity of green.