The Daisy Field (The Strange Three)

poem, poems, poetry, writing

We fell from Heaven

And struck every branch

On the way down.

The impact left a crater,

Half the diameter of a New England town.

With no direction I dream

Of rambling on.

Lucidly waking, scrambling for

Planes, trains, or bus.

Filling my hiking bag, hand encompassing a compass.

I have lost what I was searching for

Days end, regardless of the score.

Dominoes race to tackle one another

And lay in a long row, beautiful.

The fallen supporting the aggressor.

I need to go to the East Coast.

I need to go to the West Coast.

I need mountain range.

I need to fill my lungs with ocean salt

I need to fill my eyes with less asphalt.

 

Whenever I see daisies

I want to thrust them beneath your nose.

White petals collide

Like characters in my prose.

I see them growing strong.

Through cracks in the concrete.

Or neatly clipped,

wrapped with feet

Dipped in a Convenience store’s

Milk-crate propped doors.

 

It is so, so strange,

How socially corrupt that would be.

So strange.

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