Cockspur Bush

 I am lived.
 I am died.

I was two-leafed three times, and grazed,
but then I was stemmed and multiplied,
sharp-thorned and caned, nested and raised, 
earth-salt by sun-sugar.
 I was innerly sung
by thrushes who need fear no eyed skin thing.

Finched, ant-run, flowered, I am given the years
in now fewer berries, now more of sling
out over directions of luscious dung.

Of water crankshaft, of gases the gears
my shape is cattle-pruned to a crown spread sprung
above the starve-gut instinct to make prairies
of everywhere.
 My thorns are stuck with caries
of mice and rank lizards by the butcher bird.

Inches in, baby seed-screamers get supplied.

I am lived and died in, vine woven, multiplied.

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