The Wildflowers

At midnight master has a
cigarette and I am out the gate,
to the empty overgrown
property where I put my nose
to dim moon-lit mounds of
flowers—I divine the
disappearing paths of our
enemies and inhale the milk
mist of dead and living things
and by an intuition, my ear
upon the earth I hear defects in
the earth’s staccato—its
unbroken alien language,
scream and shout if need be at
impending misadventure and
always at my master’s beck our
dirt worship will end, and I will
attend him back to bed, where
defenceless he will suffer
dreams—dirt clods, green weeds,
wild, wild green weeds and flowers.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

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—Gabriel Muoio

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