Henri Cole

Blackbird and Wolf continues to fry my circuits. Always a fan of grand sweeping gestures, I want to throw the papers off my desk and proclaim this book a breakthrough in lyric poetry. But I'll save that.


My Weed

On the path to the water, I found an ugly weed

growing between rocks. The wind was stroking it,

saying, "My weed, my weed." Its solid,

hairy body rose up, with big silver leaves

that rubbed off on me, like sex. At first,

I thought it was a lamb's ear, but it wasn't.

I'm not a member of the ugly school,

but I circled around it and looked a lot,

which is to say, I was just being, and it seemed to me--

in a higher sense--to represent the sanity of living.

It was twilight. Planets were gathering.

"Mr. Weed," I said, "I'm competitive,

I'm afraid, I'm isolated, I'm bright.

Can you tell me how to survive?"