TO LISTEN ONE MUST LOVE
SEEDS.
To listen one must love seeds.
Or, to love, one must listen to seeds. I forget.
This morning on the bridge across the ancient mills,
the cart driver collecting the garbage stopped to count
the courting cattle egrets. He was crooning
their vital statistics to his shadowed assistant.
The egrets were fluffing their feathers, and
editing the stats. To listen to this morning
is to love seeds. To pull the pole beans, pop
the casings, line the pockets. Every day I gaze
upon the scales of the anona, fruited away
in the canopy of my orchard, and every day
the anona grow plumper, taking their time,
un-anxious to please me. The oranges in their nets
don’t orange. They are enjoying their green phase.
The seed banks of the world change places—the one
in Syria moves to Iraq. The one in Norway
begins to lend out seeds and then to collect.
There are gun banks buried underground—one
in Texas—these are called caches. When you dig guns up
they grow and grow. To love bodies, one must scratch holes
and listen to seeds. These. This morning picking beans,
my shoe slipped into a pocket of air. It was
a cache of vole. To love voles one must hunger,
muster hunger, desire darker ways of seeing,
seed the dark, and must love ceding.
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