Mary Biddinger
electricity travels every plane connected
to another plane. Trees are just math
until we need them as cover. Sky a cone
tinted gold then spun. The landscape drops
like a carnival ride, rain in our mouths
something taught then forgotten. These
daffodils beg as shorebirds seeking bread.
Every reed aspires to harden like a fence.
Air so angry it sings itself into shut rooms.
Can we trust the pond that displays us
in haunted reverse? We were built as trees
then settled under eaves, hands over ears.
