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
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