Vol 13, Num 13 :: 2014.06.27 — 2014.07.10
I could do with less talk,
said the fig tree,
the one in the vineyard
on the road into the city.
I could do with less chatter,
less noise, fewer empty syllables
figuring the air.
Letters are sharp, it said,
hanging by their ascenders,
the curved blades of the serifs
hooking into my tender leaves
and slicing them up,
washing down into the soil with the rain
and clogging it cross-thatched and heavy.
My roots do not need words, please,
I shall grow best in the spacious quiet of decay.