This poem can become anything you want -
a weed in a crack of grey cement,
a communication device, upfront
grey screen black buttons correctly present
cool cheeks for patting, and it can be
a hollowed out treecave childhood haunts,
lined with fallen leaves of seasonality.
Poems shape-shift, like humans, like water takes
up the curves and stems of its glass;
don’t be misled by the metre, this makes
a ring of fire around woven green grass
and it naps itself into cloth, a soft wipe
for creased foreheads, tired palms, when nothing breaksthe gaunt-mongrel, monotonous stare of life.