Weeds are meant to be pulled. Their wide, twine roots,
boxing everything else in. It all takes so little time, the
swarm, they take over. I struggle with the beautiful
ones, negotiate their responsibility, and end up pulling
them up anyway. Guts and roots. A brutal cycle. Like
us in a snow storm, all fear: cloth on white.


August 2014_Poem 5_I'll Be Honest


August 5, 2014, MLT




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