Hölderlin
Don’t rely on another time of year.
It is now. Moss on the rough bark
of a wingnut tree says ‘north, north’
and the supplanted dead on their side
of the Ammer chew over the thirst of roots:
their sublingual gasp, their spread; suction.
All that has been drawn – materia medica –
from the graveyard-made-botanical-garden
is filed away somewhere in this town,
seedbank of the Green movement,
the left wing struggling to lift from
its muddy tomb, flash its bright feathers.
John
Kinsella
