A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Their bulbous eyes shun my shape below, focus only on their own faceted wings, swarm’s burrow in tree top, Spanish moss. Let them, in their fixation, make one song from a thousand bodies. Let them deny my aorta’s own thrum, show me the beauty of being nothing, plague’s gift under August sun.
Copyright 2020 Tayve Neese