How did this beetle bug burrow
into the roots of the next man—
the one who lives in my tomorrow
that never arrives—the one
fleshed out with borrowed sun?
It’s been unfair—my mind.
Moves ideas like ants
ferrying eggs through compost,
scrambling from the flood
of my hose—
haven’t noticed me.
I wish the happiness
I cannot give to others.
So go on. Get!
Get going with the beetle,
me with dirt on my thumb,
wishing I could plant
in a life already overgrown.
I was wrong
to dream I could just
drop into the earth
and the vines wouldn't choke.
How embarrassing—
to have thought
anything at all.
Ponder now—Mushrooms
cut down—grew again
the next day. Birds perched
on them—by afternoon.
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