there’s always been something
sacred about a lost corner
of cracked asphalt
under the daylong sun
where absolutely nothing grows
except the sad weeds
just as I thought I heard
trumpets sound
though I was taught
the walls were long down
I noted the prophet
head cocked patient
sitting on the curb
beside the riven pavement
and knew there were still ramparts
and work for the trumpeters
from my mundane height I hear
every car on the road
every radio every satellite
how much more
does he hear sitting down there
among the holy holy weeds
Bag of Anything 