I dropped them for sparrows, let them squabble
over their husks, peck them from gravel.
I let the sun bleach them bonewhite,
desiccate their flesh, shrivel roots.
I turned away while brambles razorwired,
shredded and choked their promise, snared.
I’ll make good with a swinging adze, my spade,
this scythe. Next time, I’ll give you ground.
• This poem first appeared in Raum #3