Moving Out

I was born in a muddy time created to be a field of broken bricks. Years wove their weeds. There was hope, enclaves of suburban heavens old men in grim pubs spoke of. You might think that I pulled myself together, dug my boots out of that land of bitter muck. Not I, I killed the weeds only, carried still, the rubble and smut inside my belly for decades only to give birth to an inner life, small green shoots I then replanted in earthenware pots, tokens left on the bare platforms of railroad stations