When the button mums —
one plant huge enough to fill the car trunk,
covered in dark orange and simmering yelllow —
go on sale for the price of the pot

we’re close, very close to winter
because it means there’s not time enough
to get them into the ground and have them thrive
and so they will bloom and then die aboveground.

And when the Brooklyn Bridge —
its towers reminiscent of towers now gone —
fills again with bodies that this time
do not flee but resist, and sit, and wait

for the lowering arm of power to gather them in
and grind them slowly through the system,
its price soars and it won’t be sold
cheaply — we’re close, very close

to spring.  

Two crowds full of tiny faces seen from above
may mean different things —
one heralds an end, and one may herald
a beginning, but who will deny that each is beautiful?

You’re 
the best .50 caliber
megaphone ever to bark
a slogan

You’re the most fun
anyone ever had
at a Molotov cocktail party

You’ve forgotten more
about posterboard
than most will ever know

You adore Sisyphean tasks
the way a teenager
adores every orgasm

You come running for a riot
with a sharp sense of gas
and tears and when you slump
as they arrest you
it’s like the Pieta come alive

Oh you
pretty much define my cause
and straight up come correct
like a jaguar intent on the reason
you were made

If it’s wrong to love you
for the speed with which you rage
I guess I’m wrong
for the righteousness
and if it’s righteousness I’m wrong for
I’m wrong for you

for you are opinion
and reaction and knowing
and making a life out of decisions
and clearing a path
and if that’s not worth a look or two of love
then call me the blind
waiting for the blind
to lead