I am sure the panic grass has a language of gestures
I am sure the wild horses of forced surrenders
Have run and bled in the knives of green
One day we will be meaninglessly touching
And adrenaline will feel like catastrophic rain
I will restrain my wheaten waves of fatuous hair
From that sickle of yesterdays
And keep fire in such fine capillaries
Where its filaments resemble careless candles tipped

I have wandered the nights of tremulous projectors
Looking for your nightmares
I am sure the panic grass has a language of gestures
Surreal children who want to hide in each other's sleep
And those who shirk away and bend in waves
And those who find old hands in floral wallpaper
Entrapped in their parental planetarium

Loved ones, you are loved ones;
Do not worry in the wind and rain.
Watch as time gains on memory in the flickering race
And the relegated prairie flourishes anyway.
Welcome to your Ball jar terrarium
And your inherited circulation, children,
You of the obscuring grass and gesture;
Welcome to your hapless ecosystem
And the bend of lithe figures in the shadowy moon.
Let green re-grow your stolen tissue
With the ambrosia of the plants and their Native names,
Because blood is in your ground
Blood is feeding the muddy seep
After the autumn fires, after you love,
After you sleep.