unprincipled

this is the way things could be done

and i want you to know

that this silvery birch

and frozen thrush

are in cahoots

working together

to shelter

and feed scraggly babies

from the gnats and grubs

who live nearby

this counts as salvation

we linger in polar despair

even when we’re up to our

knees satisfied

bottomless subterranean wanting

struggling to imagine

that someone will

some tiny kindness will

feed us from the fetid

morsels that surround us

a sullen dwelling exchange

of our never there

for our ghostly here

the newborn cries a furtive

fortunate version of us

beaks and jaws wide as sunlight

not minding if rain gets in

or washes away the left over

sludge that we splattered

in our indecision

not awake enough to stroke

a line a curve a color

to mean or stand for

some hanging thread

that fragrances unwavering

we stilted without scent

a fragment yielding shape

the dinner bell alarms

our stomachs and annoyances

forcing us to flee the canvas

demanding payment

a reckless withdrawal

of trees stripped to their roots

still hungry still sating