8/19/16
1.
In August, algae
chases us from the lake.
Gnawed zucchini rots
to scorched slime in the field.
In Hartford, the men yell louder,
honk sharper.
One in the South End shouts
¡malanga! when English
doesn't shake me.
Root.
I shake dirt from roots of pigweed
we let shoot too high,
my hands screaming back.
2.
The first ammonite
loved the whisper of polyps
calcifying at dawn.
She had never heard of trees.
She had never heard of asteroids.
Through blooms of marine snow
came new blue creatures—
toothed, footed, slick.
One had interlocking ribs
through which a steady rise
and fall was already visible.
