The love songs of the ordinary
can be heard in the cattails
that intrude in the ditches
of the roads between the town
and the city. That thin whistle
and shattering rattle
are all you need to know
about how we find each other,
setting up housekeeping
where everyone can see
and no one will notice.
When the exemplary
drive past us, we just stand,
moved a little perhaps in their wake,
but holding fast to the ground
in places they would never think
to build upon. We sing there
the way they think they sing,
but we know better
as we fray and burst and
spread our seed,
and we’ll be here when they’ve gone by us
rushing to the homes built on solid ground
that they’ll abandon in search of a better place,
a place they’ll find and lose again
while we and our ordinary
sit by the road and sing
and watch them pass.
Dark Matter 