The Catbird Stills
I pull at crab grass
through the shimmer of tears
and curse the rain.
Resentful of the fertility of cow shit
and seduction's sloppy song
in overfull gutters, I tug.
Clover bleeds between my fingers,
bow their heads to pray penance
in the crush of my palms,
and in the light of a gibbous moon
the cry of the catbird stills
to the wordless frustration of a poet.