Long ago someone suggested
that these were impliant, unpalatable,
so this afternoon my spine becomes a sundial
on this lawn,
with my hands as tridents,
sharp as gryphons' talons, pulling at fibrous tendons,
stopping to wave, then to stoop again
at these wisps that for all you know, or I,
could turn alimentary.
But the many I've missed will fill the gloves
I've left on the lawn,
torn antennae signalling their own schema of seeds,
then bend with a gnat,
mocking my ache in the beery dusk
with their allegiance to night,
waving at my den window with my forgotten hands.